Eno trudged up the road. Big fancy property like this, maybe a chance to hit a lick.

His last stretch at County had ended eighty-two days ago, then he was back on the street looking for bank. Trying a few things that didn’t work out so having to do this.

Bright Dawn Cleaning and Maintenance.

He’d filled out a half-page questionnaire: Have you ever been convicted of a felony?

Hell, yeah.

He’d checked No. Later he found out from dudes at the Cyril you weren’t even allowed to ask anymore. He’da lied anyway, it was good to stay in practice.

Looking for shit to steal was Eno’s thing when he was at rich-people houses doing landscaping or roofing. His specialty was small stuff no one would notice till he was long gone. Street sale or pawn at one of the places that didn’t ask questions.

He thought of himself as careful but not careful was not noticing an old Mexican maid at a house in Hancock Park after he spotted a little gold box on a table from outside a sliding glass door. The door unlocked, shiny thing just sitting shouting Come and Get Me!!

Maid’s looking from around a corner. Being sneaky, whose fault was that?

That had earned Eno three months at County while waiting for trial. All charges dismissed because the maid went back to Mexico. Plus they never found the box because Eno had ditched it in some bushes before the cops showed up.

Lack of evidence, his PD announced. Proud of herself, like she did something.

Maybe he should go back and look for the box in the bushes. Nah, be careful.

So now he was pushing a big plastic wheelie can up a long private road early on a Sunday morning. The can full of gloves and bleach and soaps and rags and Windex, a broom and a shovel attached to the side.

Another party house to clean up. Worst job he’d ever had, getting up at five a.m. to start at six, being driven all over the city in a service van, Laquitha at the wheel, glaring at him and the other cleaners like they were the garbage.

Like they were special-needs kids on a special-needs school bus; Eno knew about that.

He’d worked two houses this month, not a single lick. No surprise, he guessed; the places were mostly empty except for rented furniture.

The disgusting shit people left behind, even with the gloves it grossed Eno out.

He’d do it just until something better came along. If nothing fell into place soon, maybe he’d take the next step: mask and hoodie up, get weaponated, do the gimme-your-money-motherfucker!!!

Targeting drunk downtown club yuppie scum weaving around like worms. Lots of clubs walking distance from his room at the Cyril. What a shitbox that was, not much better than a cell.

At least Section 8 was paying for it.

As he pushed the wheelie, he tried to concentrate, always a challenge.

Yeah, easy enough to take the next step and just go for the gold. Unless you got blowback from a drunken yuppie. Eno had never been a fighter and at forty-three he had no muscles left.

Motherfucker fought back, Eno would have no choice.

Bang.

Maybe too big a step.

Meanwhile he’d do this. Pushing uphill, his mind wandering. Nothing at the top except other people’s shit.

He stopped for breath, arms and chest and legs aching. A few more steps and the drive curved around and he finally saw the house.

Whoa! Biggest one so far. More like one of them castles, with two of those things that stick out on castles on either end, whatever they called ’em. The whole thing looked like it was made of gray castle-stones. Then Eno saw it was just regular stucco with lines in it. Fake-out, but still, like a castle.

As he got closer, the house got even huger. Like it was put there to make him feel small. All that was missing was one of them water thingies they put around castles, alligators and dragons swimming around snapping their jaws. One of them... mokes.

That would be something, big moke full of monsters, just waiting to grab you by the business. Chain-saw teeth, before you knew it, you were a street taco.

Eno shuddered, imagining, stopped for more breath, resumed wheeling. Man this was steep.

Not only didn’t this castle have no moke, there was nothing out front period, not even a lawn, just dirt.

Why couldn’t the company drive him up from Benedict Canyon? He’d asked Laquitha.

No answer, bitch just sped off.

Leaving him with a fucking hike. Eno hated hiking, reminded him of when he was doing state park service as part of his first arrest at fifteen in San Bernardino.

He finally almost got to the top. Place was a joke lick-wise; halfway up, he’d seen an alarm sign from a company he knew had went out of business five years ago. A Protected By Video Surveillance sign but no cameras.

On top of that, the gate on Benedict was left wide-open since like three a.m. Saturday when the party ended. The crap that was gonna be left behind, sitting there, all clotted and sticky, a pain to scrub.

Another pause to breathe then he made it to flat ground. The place was huuuge, would take every minute of the seven hours Bright Dawn gave him. Twelve bucks an hour plus the shit lunch they packed for the workers. Huge place but a one-man assignment.

The rules were always the same: Start with the outside, then do the inside, there’d be a back door left unlocked.

Eno looked up at those two tall things, what did they call them... tur... bines? No, turbits. Coupla turbits sticking into the sky. Darker gray than the sky. Everything gray.

June Gloom his aunt Audrey used to call it. But this was May.

Eno called it L.A. shit-air.

Maybe there’d be something here, not just red cups, empties, used condoms and needles. He looked for access to the backyard. Nothing on the left, there was a stone wall blocking him. But walking to the right side of the castle showed him another iron gate, wide open.

Nice iron, all fancy with squiggly things and flowers and twisted bars. The metal by itself some serious bank but he had no way to transport it. Years ago, he’d gotten into copper wire, did real good selling to places on San Fernando. Then, at a plumbing supply yard on Alameda, he got nailed by a junkyard dog that came outta nowhere and busted by a rent-a-cop with a Glock.

That had earned him five months at County, grand theft pled down to petty, the first forty-five days in the infirmary healing his leg. The rest of his sentence they had to put him in protective because all the regular cells were taken up by gangsters.

Maybe scrap metal wasn’t his thing.

He pushed the wheelie through the gate opening. What shoulda been a driveway but was dry dirt. Like someone built the castle then hated it and decided not to finish.

It took a while to get past a long wall of fake-stone but finally he reached the backyard.

More nothing-green, just a wall of trees all the way at the back, like someone was trying to take out a forest. Facing the back of the castle was one of those covered things rich people used for sitting in, a round dome roof covered by dead brown vines that reminded Eno of coiling snakes.

Over to the right was an empty blue hole where a big pool woulda been if the hole had water. At least one lucky break, he wouldn’t have to fish out used condoms. But around the fake-stone pool deck he spotted some, along with red cups and broken bottles.

Eno wasn’t paying attention to any of that. His eyes were to the left of the pool. Something different.

A super-stretch Town Car, white, one of those prom specials.

Eno had ridden in one when he was nineteen. Invited by his friends when they graduated high school even though he’d dropped out in tenth.

First, he’d said, Nah.

They’d said, Hey, E-man, fuck graduation, you can still party!

So he went. And had a pretty good time, until the girl he was fingering gave him a funny smile then barfed all over him. Everyone, including the girl, laughing. Eno knew right then and there that he wasn’t fitting in, would never. So he left and walked four miles home. Aunt Audrey was up, watching Discovery ID. Wrinkling her nose and saying, “Whoo, someone stinks like a pig with the runs.”

Laughing but also pissed off at Eno. Not letting him use the bathroom to clean up, he had to go outside and shiver naked while he hosed himself off.

So fuck proms and stretch white Town Cars. Fuck this job, he was definitely gonna mask-and-hoodie and take the next step.

But meanwhile, maybe something shiny in the limo.

Then he thought: What was a car doing here? Someone still inside? A stoned-out loser sleeping it off? Bunch of losers? After an orgy?

Maybe he’d get to roust some naked chicks, get looks at their tits as they panicked to get dressed.

Smiling, he left the wheelie in place and strutted toward the limo. Tried to peer through the windows. Tinted too dark.

“Hey,” he said, not as loud as he’d meant to be.

No answer.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

“Dude. Party’s over, you need to leave.”

Still no answer.

Stoned out? Or just shining him on.

Like he wasn’t there.

That made Eno’s face feel hot, same feeling as before his assault beef, some loser in a Bakersfield bar saying he was a fag and getting razored across the face down to the bone.

“Hey!” Shouting, now.

Feeling his body tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time but liked, Eno flung open the driver’s door.

Saw what he saw and felt his stomach go nuts. Like he was going to barf.

He trembled, mouth-breathed, felt his heart racing. Turned to look at the back of the limo but a sliding black glass panel blocked his view.

He backed away. Frozen.

Then — he couldn’t explain it but he just did it. Opened the rear door and looked inside.

Oh, shit, bad idea. Now his stomach felt like it was shooting totally out of his mouth like all his insides were coming loose.

Oh, shit, this was different this was bad-different.

He slammed both doors shut, felt what was left of his breakfast burrito shoot up and out and miss the limo’s spotless white paint and land on the dirt.

What to do now? He’d seen lots of things but he’d never seen anything like this, what to do?

Reaching into his jean pocket, he pulled out the phone he’d just bought from a homeless guy on Grand Street. Piece of shit, ten bucks, thirty-three minutes left.

Use the time to call the company? Nah, no one was in the office this early.

What would they say, anyway?

So 911 here we come.

Eno’s day to be a solid citizen.

When it comes to murder, nighttime’s the right time. So when Milo calls me, I often find myself driving to crime scenes on dark L.A. streets.

This time, the phone rang just after nine a.m. Lovely Sunday in May. Robin and I and Blanche, our little French bulldog, had taken a leisurely two-mile walk followed by a pancake breakfast.

Robin was washing, I was drying, Blanche’s sausage body was prone on the kitchen floor as she snored and let out periodic dream squeaks. My phone, on vibrate, bounced on the kitchen counter. Milo’s number on the screen.

I said, “What’s up, Big Guy?”

Detective II Moses Reed said, “Actually it’s me, Doc. He asked me to phone you.”

“Busy, huh?”

“We’re all busy. This is utterly horrible.”

Reed’s a terse young man; it takes a lot to get him using adverbs.

I sat down and listened as he explained, images tumbling into my brain. Robin turned from the sink, pretty eyebrows arching. I shook my head and mouthed Sorry, and said, “Where, Moe?”

“Private road called Ascot Lane, off Benedict Canyon. Easy to miss, kind of like your street, but this one’s more like a big driveway, only goes to one house.”

He sighed. “Half mile north of the Beverly Hills border.”

But for a couple thousand feet, someone else’s problem.

I said, “Give me half an hour.”

“Whenever you get here, Doc. No one’s leaving for a while.”

The tech working the front of the limo was broad and male, the one at the rear smaller, probably female. Milo tapped the man’s shoulder softly.

The big tech looked over his shoulder and exhaled. A mask-muffled voice said, “Lieutenant.”

Milo said, “Sorry for sneaking up on you, George. This is Dr. Delaware. Can he take a brief look?”

George’s mask tented. Lips forming something that might’ve been a smile or a frown. “What you’d like is what we do, Lieutenant.” Sharp tugs at the edges of the mask. Definitely a smile. “Unless one of the pathologists comes by and contradicts you.”

“You expecting a doc?”

George stood and pulled his mask down on a face suited for a sitcom dad role: a bit soft at the corners, crinkly world-weary eyes. “I requested one but probably not. It’s psychotic at the crypt, big de-comp, stinks like you know what. Truth is, I was happy to get out of there.”

He frowned. “Even with this.”

The smaller tech stood and faced me. Female, young, bespectacled. “Knees hurt, I’m ready for a break.”

They both left the tent.

I inhaled through my nose, exhaled through my mouth, and stepped forward. Gloved but still careful not to touch anything, I began taking fast-action mental snapshots.

My brain works like that, registering images and saving them. Forever.

Snap one: in the driver’s seat an elderly black man.

Leaning slightly to the right.

Both hands resting in his lap.

Black chauffeur’s suit. White shirt. Black tie. White hair. Bushy white mustache.

Black hole in the left temple to his left cheek. Brown crust rimming the wound but no other blood until you got to the knees. Then, lots of it, slick as an oil slick as it glazed the lower part of both legs and descended to dove-gray leather seating and plush black carpeting.

No blood on the impeccable gray mohair roof of the limo. A partition sectioning driver from passengers was black glass but for a gold-plated audio speaker in the center.

No spatter there. Not a speckle anywhere.

The chauffeur’s chocolate skin had turned chalky in splotches. Slightly parted lips revealed perfectly aligned white teeth.

Dental perfection courtesy a skilled dentist. A bridge had come loose and dangled awkwardly.

I peered closer. No stippling around the wound that I could see but dusky skin tone made it hard to be sure.

Rigor hadn’t set in. Or it had come and gone. The dried blood said probably the latter.

Eight to twelve hours with no obvious decomposition. Cool May weather? But it’s rarely that simple.

I stepped back and walked to the rear of the car.

Three dead people occupied the rear seat, pressed close to one another, knees touching.

Closest to the door was a white male in his thirties wearing a black sport coat, a black T-shirt and slacks, black loafers, no socks. Thick, dark hair. Lean, good-looking.

Like the chauffeur, coated with blood from the knees down, a similar pool sludging the carpet.

Unlike the chauffer, no bullet wound that I could see.

I said so to Milo.

He said, “There is none, don’t know what got him, yet.”

I turned back to the car. The good-looking man’s fly was unzipped. His limp penis rested in the upturned left palm of his nearest seat-mate.

Older woman. Sixties, maybe even seventies, full-faced with a squashed, veiny nose. Eyes shut behind steel-framed glasses. Puffy cheeks had been rouged clumsily, creating clown-like cerise circles. Heavy arms swelled the long sleeves of a black wool dress, and stout legs encased in fishnet stockings were stuffed into square-toed black pumps, instep flesh humping above the strap. Gray hair curled from beneath a black felt tam. No jewelry, no adornment.

Like the chauffeur and the man whose member she fondled, bloodied from the knees down.

Again, no bullet wounds I could see.

I circled to the opposite side of the limo. The young D’s were still there. They greeted me but didn’t move.

The final victim was a brown-skinned man, Hispanic or Middle Eastern. Thin, bony-faced, with meager, elfin features. Sparse dark hair cropped short was flecked with silver. A filmy thatch of chin hairs struggled to be a beard.

Tough to estimate his age. My mental Nikon settled on thirty-five to forty-five.

Like the three other victims, dressed in black. Baggy suit, blousy white shirt, clip-on black tie, black canvas slip-ons.

I thought of a funeral procession waylaid and slaughtered.

Male Number Two’s cause of death, obvious: bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Washed in blood from the knees down. Nothing to do with a small-caliber wound.

I returned my attention to the woman in the center. Stern, matronly. An appearance bizarrely at odds with the organ in her hand.

I said, “Nothing makes sense.”

Milo said, “And here I was hoping for immediate wisdom.” But he didn’t sound surprised.

“Any I.D.s?”

“Let’s catch some fresh air, I’ll fill you in.”

I followed him out of the tent, across a strip of cement and a wider belt of dirt, up the steps to the domed pavilion. The structure was impressive at a distance but tatty up close, brick floor cracked and buckling, cement columns crudely molded. The roof was rusting iron covered with dead vines that fought one another for space.

Vipers in a feeding frenzy.

Milo said, “Okay to sit, this area’s been gone over.” He plopped down on a flimsy-looking plastic chair and made it groan. “Lotta crap cleared away, most probably garbage from the party. Lovely stuff — condoms, cups, little baggies with remnants of granular stuff.”

The other chairs looked grubby. I stayed on my feet.

He said, “Any impression at all? I’ll take improv.”

I said, “To my eye, they’ve been dead for a while. I’d guess no more than twelve hours but maybe I’m missing something and they were partygoers from Friday night?”

“You’re not missing anything. The company that books venues swears the place was cleared out three a.m. Saturday. That wouldn’t mean much but every C.I. and tech says the condition of the bodies doesn’t match that long of a time period, even with cool weather, there’d have to be more decomp.”

“The car was moved here after three. How’d it gain access to the property?”

“Same way you and Mr. Walters did, open gate. Cleaning company asks for that, closes up when the job’s over. Nothing inside, anyway, just cheap rental furniture.”

He pulled a panatela from an inside jacket pocket. Rolled it between thick fingers but didn’t unwrap it.

I said, “Didn’t see any maggots on the bodies.”

“There weren’t any, just a few blowflies buzzing around the driver’s door when we arrived. Walters opened two doors then shut them. After he threw up. Looks like the closed car formed a sealed environment.”

“Any cameras on the property?”

“Not a one.”

“Who owns the place?”

“Don’t know yet, cleaning company punted to a rental agent and she hasn’t answered my call.”

He held up the cigar and squinted, as if close inspection would reveal secrets. “What’d you think about all that blood at the bottom?”

“Doesn’t fit the wounds,” I said. “As if it got poured on them postmortem.”

“Everything’s wrong about this picture, Alex. Holes only in the driver and the little guy? Joe Stud groped by a woman old enough to be his mother, looks like a church lady? What the hell is that, Alex? Something creepy-Oedipal? Or whatever you guys are calling it nowadays.”

I shook my head.

He said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, too early to expect wisdom.”

He looked over at the tent. “When the call came in, four bodies in a stretch, I was thinking, just what I need, a gang thing with a hip-hop angle. Or worse, some kids partying got wiped out by who-knows-who. Then I get here and it’s even crazier.”

He returned the panatela to his pocket. “Everyone’s weirded out, Alex. Even George Arredondo — the big tech — before he went scientific, he was on the job, patrol in the toughest part of Lancaster. Ten years of violent domestics, meth monsters, child murders. Nothing bothers him. This does.”

He got up, paced the pavilion, sat back down, rubbed his eyes. “Don’t hold back, I’ll settle for wild theory.”

I said, “Four victims, variation of method. So maybe they were killed separately, at different locations. At some point, they’re collected, cleaned up and costumed postmortem, placed in the car and driven up here. Then they’re splashed with blood and left to be discovered. It feels like some sort of a production. With all those steps, moving the bodies, probably more than one person. Or one bad guy who had plenty of time, a safe place to work, and the ability to escape on foot. Or he’d stashed one of those mini-bikes in the trunk.”

“A physically fit psycho,” he said. “Or a gang of zombie fiends. Wonderful. What else, keep ideating.”

The cigar made a second appearance. As I thought, he smoked. When I began talking, he stopped.

“We’re talking a killer or killers who knew the gate would be left open with no one around. That could mean a past partygoer. Or someone with a link to either the rental company or the house itself. What about the victim I.D.’s?”

He pulled out his notepad, flipped a page. “The men all had their wallets in their pant pockets, nothing on the women. The driver’s Solomon Roget, seventy-eight. I googled him. Legit livery driver, home address near Pico-Robertson, the limo’s registered to him along with a 2001 Cadillac sedan. The poor guy with his fly open is Richard Peter Gurnsey, thirty-six, Santa Monica, the little guy is Benson Mauricio Alvarez, forty-four, lives near downtown.”

“Victims from all over the city,” I said. “Any purse on the woman?”

“Empty. Got the Gucci clasp but Alicia informs me it’s a cheap-shit copy. No blood on it, so it was placed after the red bath.”

I said, “A prop.”

He frowned and turned pages. “Gurnsey — he goes by Rick on his social media pages — has a law degree and works in business affairs at Sony Studios in Culver City. He put himself all over Instagram. Mountain biking, scuba diving, hang gliding, fooling in the gym. He also liked showing off his matte-black BMW and he likes women. All young and cute, no apparent fetish for grannies. Roget has no internet presence and neither does Alvarez, who’s mentally challenged. I reverse-directoried his address. Group home for people with developmental issues able to ‘mainstream and live semi-independently.’ ”

I said, “A mentally slow forty-four-year-old, a narcissistic hotshot, a woman who looks like everyone’s straitlaced aunt, and their chauffeur. It’s like they’re characters in a play. Roget doesn’t advertise?”

“Haven’t found anything yet. He doesn’t appear to work for a company and the limo is registered to him personally so I’m thinking freelance.”

“I wonder how he got business.”

“Maybe word of mouth? Don’t know much about anything, Alex. Let’s go back.”

We got in Milo’s Impala and he rolled it slowly down the drive. Nowadays journalism’s a short-attention-span business; at least half the reporters had left. When those that remained saw us, they tried to compensate with arm waves and revved-up volume.

Milo said, “You hear something, Alex? I don’t.” Nosing past the throng, he turned right on Benedict. Eno Walters was down the road a thousand feet, walking unsteadily and smoking the cigar.

Milo pulled up alongside him. “The press get hold of you?”

“I told ’em to fuck off.”

“Good man.” Another twenty exchanged hands.

Walters looked at it suspiciously, then jammed it in a jean pocket.

“Want a lift to Sunset?”

“Why? So you can lock me up again?” Hunching and working his lips, he turned his back on us.

“Love the job,” said Milo, putting on speed. “Makes me feel like one of the popular kids.”

When we returned to the car, noon had passed. “Next closest is Mr. Roget. I’ll try his number.”

No answer, no voicemail. Milo started up the engine. “Damn. If he lives alone, I’ll need a victim’s warrant.”

He drove east on Arizona.

I said, “If there’s no one to talk to, maybe Leon Creech can help.”

“Why him?”

“They’re both older guys who drove livery independently.”

We’d met Creech last year, the driver of a hundred-year-old victim as well as her murderers. Informative, courtly, professional.

“Leon, there’s a gent for you,” said Milo.

“It’s worth a try.”

“Sure, why not, but first let’s see if Solomon Roget lives with someone I can traumatize.”

Doctors in Florida, uncommon surname, easy trace.

Hillaire B. Roget, M.D., FAAOS, headed the Ocala Bone Institute. Specialties: geriatric orthopedics and diabetic wound management.

Milo took a deep breath, switched to speaker, and called.

The chain of communication was receptionist to nursing assistant to nurse practitioner to physician. Sped up by Milo’s rank and explanation: “It’s about Dr. Roget’s father.”

Within moments a soft voice said, “This is Hillaire Roget. What happened to my father?”

“There’s no easy way to tell you—”

“Oh, no.”

“I’m so sorry, Doctor. Unfortunately, your father’s deceased.”

“No,” said Hillaire Roget. “God no... the police? So not natural causes?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.” Milo braced himself with one hand on the steering wheel. “Your father was the victim of a homicide.”

“My father? How? What happened?”

“We’re still trying to work that out, Dr. Roget.”

“At his house? A home invasion?”

“No, sir, he was found in his car.”

“Oh, no.” Muffled weeping. A long moment passed. The soft voice had weakened. “Sorry... I told him to stop driving. A man of his age by himself with strangers? I always worried something would happen. What, a robbery?”

Milo said, “Had he had bad experiences driving?”

“I’d assume,” said Hillaire Roget. “But he wouldn’t have told me... excuse me.”

Another break.

“Oh, my, this has knocked me over, Lieutenant. Father was a kind man. A kind father. My sister and I have always adored him. After our mother died, he raised us by himself. He never hit us. Never raised his voice to us. He always said he believed in honey, not vinegar, and believe me, we could be imps. His patience... but such a stubborn man! I wanted him to move here with us, begged him, but he wanted his independence. Why couldn’t he listen?”

Milo said, “So you’re not aware of any specific incidents?”

“He’d never have told me,” said Hillaire Roget. “He still thought of me as a ten-year-old — my age when Mother died. When I became an adult, I tried to protect him, but he never relinquished his role. He was the protector. Period. Was he taken advantage of by people he drove? Probably, because he’s — oh, this is hard — he was such a generous man. Far too trusting. And that’s after going through hell growing up — Haiti, the Duvalier times, I don’t know if you’re familiar but it was horrendous back then. The secret police would visit, people would disappear. Father never lost his good cheer. Never.”

“That’s what his friend told us.”

A beat. “A woman?”

“No, sir,” said Milo. “Did he have a woman friend?”

“He did fifteen years ago, that’s why he stayed in L.A. when we moved back to Florida.”

“Name, please.”

“Lillian Adams, but she’s deceased, Lieutenant. Cancer, just a few years after my sister and I moved — that would make it twelve years ago. That’s why we thought he’d finally join us here in Florida. But he wanted to be independent. Now look where it got him — which friend told you about him? I wasn’t aware he had any friends. Not that he was a loner, he liked people. But when he wasn’t working his pleasures were solitary.”

“Another driver his age named Leon Creech. What activities did your father enjoy, Doctor?”

“Mostly reading. English and French. He also played the violin.” Strangled chuckle. “Tried to play. When he practiced, my sister and I would smile and get as far away as possible. He was no musician but he was a highly intelligent man, Lieutenant. Wanted to be a doctor but in Haiti unless you were a planter’s son or a politician’s son, forget it.”

“So he became a driver.”

“No, that was later,” said Hillaire Roget. “When we first came to Florida on the boat, he worked as a maintenance man and went to night school. Accounting. Then Mother died and he picked us up and moved to L.A. and got a job working for the gas company. Bookkeeping. Then the gas company retired him, cost cutting, he got a pension but he was bored. So he began driving. For limo companies, then himself. This Creech, is he a good person?”

“Sterling,” said Milo. “He spoke highly of your father. He also told us your father refused to advertise online and got customers by posting ads on bulletin boards.”

“Those tear-off things,” said Hillaire Roget. “Primitive. My sister and I teased him but like I said, stubborn. Did someone he drove do this?”

Milo said, “It’s very early, Doctor. We’re working out the details.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“No, sir.”

“Any clues — what do you call them — leads?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“So nothing,” said Roget. “Good God, this is unreal... will there be an autopsy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you at least tell me how he died?” said Hillaire Roget. “Do I want to know?”

“Single gunshot wound. He wouldn’t have suffered.”

“Father hated guns. Never touched a firearm after he was discharged from the Haitian army. I want to come out as soon as possible to bring him back. When may I do that?”

“I’d give it at least a week or so, Doctor. I’ll call you. And you call me anytime you have a question. Here’s my number.”

“Hold on, I’ll get a pen.” Scratchy noises. Exhalation. “Okay.”

Milo recited the numbers slowly. Hillaire Roget recited them back.

“That’s it, Doctor. Are you and your sister the only close relatives?”

“Just us,” said Roget. “My sister and I work together. Madeleine’s a podiatrist.”

“No family here in L.A.?”

“None. God, how are Madeleine and I going to tell our kids? They last saw Father two Christmases ago. We flew him out, first-class. He kept making fun of that, snooty-hooty this, snooty-hooty that. Teasing us about why we picked him up at the airport instead of letting him drive. The kids love him. He loved them... this is... a horror.”

“Again, Doctor, so sorry. Do I have your permission to enter and search your father’s residence?”

“Why would you need my permission?”

“Without it I’ll need to apply for what’s called a victim’s warrant. I’ll certainly get one but your permission would speed things up.”

“Of course, whatever helps,” said Hillaire Roget.

“Would it help to talk to your sister?”

“I doubt she can add anything and I’d rather inform her myself — that’s going to be wonderful. This is the most horrid day of my life. This and when Mother passed.”

Skaggs Avenue sits west of Chinatown, in a tight little circle of obscure streets shadowed by the pasta-bowl entwining of the 101 and 110 freeways.

The areas in and around downtown L.A. have been flirting with renewal for decades, with uneven results. A smidge of optimism had made it to Skaggs in the form of crisp, three-story apartments with security parking. Multiple For Sale signs said only a smidge for awhile.

The older properties ranged from fifties dingbats to wood-framed Victorians and Craftsman bungalows nailed up a century ago before earthquakes were taken seriously. A surprising quantity of improbable construction has survived, social Darwinism meets real estate.

Casa Clara Adult Residential Care was on the 800 block of Skaggs and one of the survivors: a two-story Craftsman painted cantaloupe orange, with a wraparound front porch complete with two rocking chairs. The paint looked fresh.

No signage; from the street, just an eccentrically colored house.

A front area behind a low wire fence and gate was cement. Triangle cutouts in the gray surface sported drought-loving succulents. That and the paint said someone was paying attention.

The gate opened on a walk-right-in pathway. From the street, no apparent security. Then the details asserted themselves.

The rocking chairs were bolted to the wide-plank porch floor. Iron bars grilled every window and the four-pane mini-window in a vintage carved mahogany door. Sticker from an alarm company and two serious dead bolts on the door. Maybe to counteract all that, a yellow happy-face decal beamed just below the top bolt.

Milo rang the bell and evoked a wasp-buzz.

Nothing for several seconds, then a female voice sang out, “Wuh-uhn second!”

Footsteps. The same voice, louder, trilled, “Who is it?”

“Police.”

The upper half of a face filled the four panes, pale skin and blue eyes waffled by the iron grid. “Um, I.D., please?”

Milo obliged with the badge. The door opened on a tall, slim woman in her twenties wearing a crimson Harvard sweatshirt, ripped gray jeans, and black flats in need of polish. Square face with a strong chin, upturned nose, narrow mouth, pert chin. Oversized glasses in tortoiseshell frames hazed the eyes, which verged on turquoise. Long caramel-colored hair was gathered in a free-for-all high pony. Long pale fingers moved restlessly, as did her shoulders and the eyebrows.

She smiled at us, what appeared to be a sincere attempt at warmth. The fidgeting reduced the impact, but still, good intentions.

“Someone finally got going on Benson? Please tell me he’s okay.”

She squinted past us at the street. “Is he in your car? Can I go out and get him?”

Milo said, “Benson Alvarez.”

Enthusiastic nod. “We call him Benny. So he’s safe. Good. We’ve all been so worried since he didn’t come home Friday. I immediately reached out to his DPSS worker but she never got back to me so I phoned you guys. The guy I spoke to started in with an adult has to be missing twenty-four hours before you can file a report. I told him Benny wasn’t your typical adult and he said okay, he’d look into it. I wasn’t sure he meant it, so good, he did.”

She shifted to the right, blue eyes shooting past Milo. “Um, I don’t see him in your car. Is he being held somewhere? I can’t leave myself but maybe Andrea can authorize an Uber to pick him up or something.”

Milo said, “You’re his caretaker?”

“I oversee the facility. We’re Level One, the most able residents, they don’t have individual caretakers. It’s by accident that I’m dealing with this, usually I do the night shift because I’m going to school for my master’s during the day. But Marcella — the day person — asked if she could trade to take some vacation time with her boyfriend.”

She stopped, caught her breath. “That was oversharing, sorry. So where and when can Benny be picked up?”

Milo rubbed his face. “Could we come in, Ms...”

“Justine Merck. Why, what’s happened?”

“It would be better if we discussed this inside—”

“Something happened to Benny?”

This time, Milo used the card.

Justine Merck read and swayed and clutched the doorjamb for support. “Homicide... Benny? Oh, God, no!” One of her feet gave way and began skidding out from under her.

I caught her by the arm, Milo gripped the other, and we guided her inside.

Monday at two p.m., he called and said, “Three able detectives canvassing thoroughly, zero information.”

Tuesday at four p.m., he texted: Don’t know if it’s too short notice but Andrea Bauer’s coming by in an hour.

I’d just completed two custody reports and Robin would be working late, finishing a “dire emergency” repair on the neck of a celebrity rocker’s red-sparkle Telecaster. Koko Moe didn’t play a note and used the instrument the way a drum majorette employs a baton. But she needed to look “hot and hyper and hot,” and a limp, decapitated instrument wouldn’t cut it.

I went to Robin’s studio, kissed her, and looked at her workbench. “Artistic fulfillment.”

“We take it where we find it, darling.”

The trip down the stairs was the Andrea Bauer — led race in reverse. Once outside, she shot Milo something vaguely smile-like, crossed Butler Avenue, and jogged into the staff lot.

Milo said, “She knows people. Nothing like a threat to brighten my day.”

I said, “Her main reason for coming here was self-protection.”

“Alvarez disappears Friday, it’s already Tuesday and I’m supposed to shield her from bad P.R.? The brass has stifled to the max because the mayor’s official line is The Westside Is Safe but a story breaks tomorrow in the Times.”

“Could work in your favor,” I said.

“Tips? With all the loonies, a double-edged sword but let’s see. Meanwhile the kids are still canvassing, I extended it two miles in both directions.”

Andrea Bauer’s Panamera exited the lot and sped off.

He said, “It could work in my favor — lemons to lemonade, huh? You ever sink into a sump of bitter, soul-leeching pessimism?”

Not since I made my way from Missouri to L.A. at sixteen and could stop hiding from a drunken, raging father.

I said, “I try to avoid it.”

Beverly Hills High is a twenties-era French Normandy concoction sprawling across twenty prime acres that had once served as a racetrack. By three twenty Milo and I were parked near the main motor exit watching for either Shirin Amadpour’s one-year-old white Porsche Boxster or Todd Leventhal’s two-year-old black Dodge Challenger to emerge.

The Dodge was the first to show, snorting and bucking as it waited behind a silver BMW halted by a crossing guard.

Young male at the wheel, young female next to him. We followed as the car made its way north to Wilshire, turned left on Beverly Drive, and continued into the core of the Beverly Hills business district. Keeping two car lengths behind and being treated to a symphony of tailgating, jerky unsignaled lane changes, and braking so sudden it juddered the Challenger’s frame.

Milo said, “Stupid kid lives on the 600 block of Alpine but he’s driving for fun. Hopefully he won’t be pulled over by BHPD before he gets there.”

His hopes were fulfilled as the Challenger was allowed to continue its clueless journey past Santa Monica Boulevard and east on Carmelita Avenue.

I said, “Warren Zevon got the name for his song from this street.”

“Huh.” He liked Zevon’s music but wasn’t in the mood to fake interest.

The black car hooked a quick left at Alpine Drive and continued half a block before careening over the curb and landing in a driveway of a homely, square house faced with gray shingles. In Beverly Hills, seven million bucks.

The driver, smallish, ferret-faced, and sporting a blond fade hairdo, got out swinging a black backpack. Slamming his door he stood next to the car and thumbed his phone. The girl unfolded herself from the passenger side. Pretty and slim, taller than her companion, clutching an identical backpack. Both of them had on charcoal-colored T-shirts and jeans and matching polychrome sneakers. A sheet of black hair tickled an area two inches below the girl’s waist.

Out came her phone. Down went her eyes. Two sets of adolescent fingers worked manically.

Milo said, “Modern romance,” and bounded out of the Impala.

Neither kid noticed our approach. That level of space-out, as vulnerable as Benny Alvarez.

Did the future portend a planet teeming with easy victims?

Finally, when we were a foot away, the girl looked up. Huge brown eyes sparked with alarm.

Milo’s smiling “Hi, guys” made matters worse. Her mouth dropped open and she grabbed the boy’s arm. He kept scrolling. “Whuh?”

“Todd — look.”

Milo said, “Todd Leventhal? Shirin Amadpour? Glad we caught you. Lieutenant Sturgis, Homicide.”

The girl gasped and squeezed Leventhal’s skinny biceps.

He kept texting.

“Taw-odd!”

Harder squeeze. Leventhal’s gray eyes rose slowly, favoring us with a neutral stare. The cropped part of his hair was etched with rising thunderbolts. The top of the do was three inches of off-white straw. “Yeah, you called. What happened afterward at the party. No idea.”

“I’ll give you an idea,” said Milo. “Someone was killed at the house you rented.”

“Don’t know about it.”

“Yes, we don’t,” said Shirin Amadpour. “That sounds terrible but we just throw parties.”

Milo said, “It’s a regular thing for you guys?”

Leventhal shrugged.

Amadpour said, “Basically.”

“How often?”

“Three, four times a year.”

“Kind of a hobby?”

The question perplexed Amadpour. “I guess.”

Leventhal’s eyes slitted. “No way. We’re in it for the money.”

Milo said, “Capitalism at work.”

Amadpour said, “No, socialism — Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter.”

“What I’m telling you is we make money,” said Leventhal. “It’s business, okay? Forty bucks guys, twenty girls.” A glance at Amadpour. The smile a carnivore gets picking out a steak.

I said, “Girls pay less.”

“Ye-ah.” The unspoken word: stuuupid. “ ’Cause girls are worth more. They’re like a... guys come because a girls.”

Amadpour took that as praise and beamed.

Milo said, “The feminine mystique.”

“Huh?”

“So how many people showed up last Friday?”

Another shrug from Leventhal.

Amadpour said, “We didn’t count.”

“How about an estimate?”

Leventhal said, “Three hundred. Give or leave.”

Amadpour said, “Yeah.”

Milo said, “How much do you guys pay to rent the house?”

Leventhal said, “Why? You want to do competition?” Giggling at the thought.

“Just trying to get an overall picture, Todd.”

“We don’t know jack about what happened after.”

“I know but just for the report.”

“The report,” said Leventhal. He smirked. “They wanted seven I got ’em down to five.”

“Thousand or hundred?”

Both kids cracked up. Leventhal said, “You get a place for hundreds, let me know.”

Milo said, “See what you mean about bank.”

Amadpour said, “But we really basically do it for fun. And basically for practice.”

“Practice for what?”

“The future. I’m going to be an event planner and Todd’s going into finance.”

Leventhal shot her a peeved look. “You don’t know for sure what I’m doing because I don’t know for sure, I might be a sports agent.” His eyes dropped to his phone. An index finger tapped the side lovingly before touching the screen and lighting it up.

Milo said, “How about holding off for a sec.”

“Why?”

“We’re having a conversation.”

“That what this is?”

“Taw-odd! Be nice to them!”

Leventhal said, “What? They’re not being nice to us. They think we know something about what happened.”

Amadpour said, “No, they don’t.” To Milo: “You don’t think that, right? All we did was throw a party.”

Leventhal huffed.

I said, “Any problems at the party?”

Shirin Amadpour cocked a hip. Black hair swooshed. “Nope, it was totally perfect.”

Leventhal said, “We don’t have problems. We get the right people.”

“As staff or guests?”

“Both.”

Milo said, “How do you build your invitation list?”

“List?” The boy snickered. “Yeah, we make a stone list. Like the Babylonians with their hydroglyphics.”

Amadpour said, “We use the Sosh-Net. Like two days before.”

Leventhal said, “Everyone who comes, we want. We don’t, we use football players from the U. to tell them bye-bye.”

“We’re careful,” said Amadpour. Pouting. “We try really hard.”

Leventhal shot her a peeved look. “We don’t try, we succeed. The money keeps out you-know-who.”

Milo said, “Who?”

“Ha.”

I said, “Forty for guys, twenty for girls.”

“We might go forty-five next time. Even fifty.”

Amadpour said, “But probably keep the girls at twenty.”

Leventhal said, “Maybe twenty-five.”

I said, “So nothing unusual happened Friday?”

“Nah, Friday was easy-peasy,” said Leventhal. “Agency said no cars, there’s too much dirt on the property, which was cool, made it easier, the football players could filter at the street.”

“Anyone argue with them?”

“Nope.”

Amadpour said, “Where did the... you know happen?”

“Behind the house,” said Milo. “In a car.”

“Proves it,” said Leventhal, doing a little jig. “We didn’t have cars so we’re not responsible for what happened later.”

I said, “When was the party officially over?”

“Officially and unofficially is the same, dude. Two. Then me and her looked around and we were outta there by two thirty.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Anything,” said Leventhal. “There was nothing.”

Amadpour frowned. “It was kind of creepy. Being there, dark, the house was like a... it’s big.”

“The football dudes were also there,” said Leventhal.

“But then we were there by ourselves, Todd.”

“Whatever. There was nothing freaky.” His hand rose and grazed thunderbolts.

Amadpour said, “I thought it was creepy. That house, big and ugly and cold-like.”

“Whatever.” Leventhal hefted his backpack and looked at Milo. “We’ve got no responsibility except overall safety and security at an event we initiate and manage competently.”

Milo said, “That sounds pretty legalistic, Todd.”

Orthodontic grin. “My dad’s a lawyer and so is hers and they told us. Even though they still give us shit.”

“About what?”

“Making our own bank.” He nudged Amadpour. “They’re scared we’ll make so much we won’t need their asses.”

She said, “I’ll always need my parents.”

He said, “You never know. We could be kings of the world.”

“I’d be a queen.”

“It’s a metaphor.” Another grin. “From a movie.”

“Which one?”

“Forget.”

Milo said, “So what’d you guys do after you left?”

“We ate,” said Leventhal.

“Denny’s,” said Amadpour. “In Westwood.”

“Waffles and links,” said Leventhal.

“Tuna salad,” said Amadpour.

“Okay?” said Leventhal. “Can we go live our life?” His hand brushed Amadpour’s cheek. She colored at the jawline. Lifting his backpack, he began walking toward the gray house.

Milo said, “None of this seems to bother you, Todd.”

The boy stopped. Turned. “Why should it bother me?”

“The fact that a murder happened where you’d just thrown a party?”

Todd Leventhal looked as if he’d been spoken to in Albanian. “I don’t know who it happened to.”

Milo loped toward him and handed him a card. Leventhal held it to his skinny flank.

Amadpour took the time to read her card. Her lips moved. Homicide.

She said, “I’m so sorry for whoever it was.”

The two of them entered the house.

Milo said, “The Todd-ster’s a pretty cold dude, no?”

“Not the most charming lad.”

“Didn’t pick up any tells. You?”

“Nope.”

“Can’t think of any motive he’d have other than he’s cold.”

I said, “Despite his business skills, he probably isn’t smart enough to coordinate the level of the production we’re looking at. And why would he call attention to himself?”

“Production. That’s really stuck with you.”

“Hard to think of it as anything else.”

“This one, hard to think of anything, period.”

Wednesday morning, news of the killings broke. The story was pushed to the rear by political viciousness, not much by way of detail, not strictly accurate. (“A multiple shooting in Beverly Hills during the early-morning hours...”)

The sketchiness meant the department had continued to suppress details but nowadays details don’t matter, it’s all about emotional contagion. I knew the internet would be ping-ponging the story, leading to freelance guesswork and tips ranging from psychotic to encouraging. Milo’s name was listed as primary investigator but his office number wasn’t. Someone calling with information would have to make an effort.

At ten to nine I arrived at the same room where Andrea Bauer’s interview had taken place. Reed, Binchy, and Bogomil walked in together four minutes later. All three in casual plainclothes, what could be taken as an internet start-up business group.

Milo had been in the room long enough to fill a whiteboard with the death shots of four victims, the forensic details available, and the time line Basia had given.

At the bottom, a snapshot of Lassie that raised the detectives’ eyebrows as they settled.

Four chairs were arranged in a semicircle facing the board. On the table, coffee pitcher, cups, and a big box of pastries from a West Hollywood French bakery. The boss picking up patisserie for the troops.

Milo snatched a cruller, demolished half, brushed crumbs from his shirt, and pointed to the board. “Nourish yourselves, scan this, then group therapy begins.”

Binchy took a chocolate croissant, Bogomil broke a bear claw in half, Reed sat down.

“Not healthy enough for you, Moses?”

“I’m watching my sugar intake.”

“I watch mine, too. As it rises.” Finishing the rest of the cruller. “Okay. Like I told you all yesterday, no info of value from the kids who threw the party. They don’t keep written records and Alex doesn’t see them as able to pull off a complex multi. I agree. I’m assuming still nothing from the canvass.”

Reed said, “We covered every house from Sunset to Mulholland. Hard to find anyone home but those that were didn’t see the limo enter or anything else out of the ordinary.”

“Coroner’s TOD estimate fits with the car being brought there in the wee hours, when it was still dark. So they could be telling the truth.”

Reed nodded. “We did get a few complaints but not just for that house, for parties in general. Parking, noise, trash.”

Bogomil said, “Like we’re supposed to drop a homicide investigation and take care of rich cranks.”

Binchy said, “It does mean lots of people knew it was a venue. Maybe also that it was left unattended after parties.”

Milo said, “Good point, Sean.” He smiled. “And depressing because it expands the suspect pool. I double-checked with Bright Dawn and they only cleaned the place one other time this year, back in January. A benefit — breast cancer, different crowd, older folk. I asked for a guest list, they said whoever throws the event keeps the records. The group’s called Daylighters, small, limited to big donors. I’ve got a call in to their office. Alicia, did you have time to look for other agencies?”

Bogomil said, “So far I’ve found four. None uses that property.”

Reed said, “What about another angle, L.T.? Nasty divorce can breed all sorts of ugly.”

I said, “I found out which judge is handling the case and left a message.”

Silence from the three of them. The kind of sludgy inertia that sets in when there’s nowhere else to go.

Milo said, “Next: phone accounts. Alvarez didn’t have one and if the woman is homeless, probably the same for her. I’ve subpoenaed Roget and Gurnsey’s cells and Roget’s landline. At the very least we’ll know who they talked to last. With the canvass over, let’s take a look at where Roget posted his ads. Now the forensics, such as they are.”

He summed up, including Basia’s asphyxiation theory for the woman and her lack of fingerprints. The latter brought frowns to three faces.

Bogomil mouthed, Wonderful.

Milo said, “Basia’s gonna try to scare up something.” He turned to me. “How about some psychological insight?”

I said, “This is more guesswork than insight. If we view the slaughter as a true multiple, it’s likely all four victims meant something to the killer. But these four are as varied as they come. So far the only commonality is the lack of local family ties but, again, why such a mixed group? Another way to look at it is one victim was the primary target and the others were added later as supporting players. To my mind, the most likely primary is Rick Gurnsey.”

I described Gurnsey’s sexual behavior.

Alicia frowned. “Bad boy who tried to sneak in the back door? Yeah, that could annoy someone.”

“If he got aggressive, he was more than an annoyance,” I said. “At the very least his behavior was high-risk. The murderer had a firearm but chose to stab him, and the lack of defense wounds says Gurnsey was caught off guard.”

“Up close and personal,” said Reed. “Cut during an intimate situation.”

“That’s how it feels to me, Moe.”

“An angry woman?” said Bogomil. “Then why the others?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “We could also be talking about an angry husband slash boyfriend. Or most likely, two people working in concert because this slaughter involved a lot of subduing and transferring.”

“Vengeful couple,” said Reed.

“Supporting players,” said Binchy. “Like casting a movie.”

I said, “Right from the beginning the crime scene’s felt theatrical to me. Given Gurnsey’s behavior, the way he was posed, his having a wider social net than the others, I’d concentrate on him. Past relationships, people he worked with.”

Bogomil said, “The woman was just as posed as Gurnsey. And choking her out was pretty up close and personal.”

I said, “It’s possible both of them were primary targets. On the other hand, her age, her looks, her possible homelessness, could be thought of as factors chosen to humiliate Gurnsey.”

“You jumped me with your alleged manhood so I’m showing it to the world, soft and small? I guess that makes sense.” She smiled. “As the girl in the room, I can say that.”

Milo said, “Hopefully we can I.D. her. We find out she’s an heiress with a big life insurance policy, we’ll shift our perspective.”

Alicia played with the pale ends of her hair. “The men were wearing normal clothes but to my eye, she was in what looked like vintage. Like someone went into the costume room and played dress-up. So yeah, there is that production feel to it.”

Binchy said, “A chauffeur’s uniform could also be seen as a costume. Choosing a chauffeur — and a car like that — is also pretty theatrical.”

Milo said, “This is good. Keep thinking and don’t be afraid to guess. Anything else?”

Silence.

“Okay, good point about the clothes, Alicia. I’ll have the lab check for labels. Onward.”

He tapped the photo of Lassie, told them about the dog blood.

They sat there.

Finally, Bogomil said, “Bastard.”

Custody evaluations pay most of my bills but I prefer trauma and injury suits because kids who’ve been injured deserve compensation and no one gets hateful.

Thursday morning, I was finishing the final report on a case I’d worked a couple of weeks ago. A three-year-old had swallowed bug bait left out by the manager of the apartment where he lived with his mother. Full recovery after a stomach pump, now the litigation. My job was evaluating the child for emotional repercussions.

I’d told the attorney the boy seemed fine, that I wouldn’t be offering any radical predictions.

He said, “No prob, I just need the basics with your stamp of approval.”

I rechecked what I’d written, auto-signed and emailed, went into the kitchen for coffee. When I got back my cell was bouncing on the desktop.

Milo said, “Got through Gurnsey’s calls, separated business from personal. I’m having the troops backward-directory each number to see who actually answers. The media coverage brought in eighty-eight tips so far and one might even be interesting. A woman phoned an hour ago, said she’d been at a party at the same house. Which is interesting because the address hasn’t been released. I asked when, she said January, a benefit, she preferred to talk about it in person. Which is different, no? Most people’ll do anything to avoid a face-to-face. She lives in Little Holmby, you could walk there. Can you make it in an hour?”

“Sure.”

“Her name’s Candace Kierstead. Here’s the address.”

I was in running clothes but hadn’t run. Showering, shaving, and shifting to work duds, I left the house, fast-walked down the Glen, sharp-eyed, facing traffic, crossed Sunset at the light, and continued south and west to Conrock Avenue.

Little Holmby is a tranquil pocket of traditional architecture sandwiched between the imperial estates of Holmby Hills and the town-sized campus of the U. Conrock was a predictably pretty street lined with immaculate houses just large enough to forestall teardown fever.

Milo’s Impala was parked on the east side of the street, midway up the block. When he saw me, he got out.

“You actually walked?”

“I thought it was an executive order.”

“More like I enabled your addiction to fitness — say nothing. Body-shaming folk such as myself is malignant.” He slapped my back. “Thanks for coming on short notice. We’re going to that one.”

He pointed to a vanilla-covered Mediterranean fronted by a precise emerald lawn. No car in the driveway. Maybe stashed behind a black-iron gate.

His knock was moderate — a friend dropping in. The woman who opened the door was thirty-five to forty, medium height and slender, with true-blue eyes and long brown hair that crowned a pleasant, unremarkable face. Oversized tortoiseshell eyeglasses rested atop a small, thin nose. No makeup or jewelry. White top, white jeggings and flats.

“Ms. Kierstead? Lieutenant Sturgis. This is Alex Delaware.”

A tentative, whispery voice said, “Candace. Please come in.”

She led us through a black-granite foyer into a living room furnished with art deco pieces that looked real. Pointing to a pair of silver velvet club chairs, she kicked off her shoes and folded onto a facing gray sofa. Bare walls. Behind the couch, a long narrow table held a framed photo of Candace Kierstead and a silver-haired man significantly her senior. Somewhere with a cathedral in the background.

Between the couch and the chairs a round bronze and mirror-top table was set up with a white porcelain coffee set and a plate of graham crackers.

Milo said, “Thanks for seeing us, Ms. Kierstead.”

“I felt I had to call. Do you want to ask questions or should I just tell you what I know?”

“Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever called the police, I’m not sure anything makes me comfortable. Except for once, a few years ago, when my husband thought he heard a prowler. Turned out to be an opossum on the roof with little babies. Can you believe that? We love animals, of course we let them be.”

I said, “This close to the mountains we do get critters.”

“I’ve seen coyotes,” she said. “In the morning when I run. The look in their eyes... rather menacing.”

Placing her palms together, she dropped them to her lap. “I’ll try to make this brief. Last night, I heard from a friend of mine about that hideous house on Benedict. She lives nearby, said there’d been police and reporters milling around Sunday morning and then a detective came to her house but wouldn’t tell her much.”

Milo said, “Unfortunately, we can’t give out details at the beginning stages.”

“She understood that, but still, it’s good to know what’s happening in your neighborhood, right? Anyway, she called me because she knew I’d once been there. Last January, a benefit for Daylighters, it’s a cancer advocacy group. I didn’t think much of it. Then I read the paper and it mentioned a mass shooting on Benedict Canyon and I said wow. Then I remembered something and figured I should tell you. But it’s probably not relevant.”

“Thanks for taking the time, ma’am.”

“Would you like some coffee? A biscuit?”

“Coffee would be great, thanks.”

“Black, cream, sugar, sweetener — stevia’s what I’ve got.”

“Black’s fine.”

“Certainly.” She poured and handed us cups. Grim but with steady hands. Nothing for herself. As we sipped, she took hold of her hair, drew it forward over her right shoulder and onto her chest. A dangling hand twisted the ends.

“So,” said Milo, “what happened when you were at the house?”

“Before we get into anything, I’d like to know something. If what I tell you does turn out to be relevant — and I don’t think it will — will I have to go to court or anything?”

Milo put down his cup and smiled. “We’re a long way from that, Ms. Kierstead.”

“You’re saying you don’t know who the — what do you call them — the perp is.”

“We’re just starting out, so anything you can tell us will be highly appreciated.”

“But still,” she said. “Going to court? I wouldn’t like that.”

“It’s unlikely that would be necessary. But honestly, we do need to hear what you have to say before that’s clear.”

“Okay. Makes sense... another thing. Sig — my husband — doesn’t know I’m doing this, so I’d appreciate if he doesn’t find out. At least for now.”

“No problem.”

She tapped her teeth. “All right, here goes. Daylighters is a small group. We require a minimum donation but we’re not snobby. I’m actually one of the youngest members. Mostly it’s Sig’s peers. His first wife passed from breast cancer.”

She licked her lips. “I guess I’m a bit nervous.”

“Take your time,” said Milo.

“Okay... what I’m trying to get across is we’re a well-behaved group, not some crazy party animals. Maybe what happened wouldn’t stand out in another setting but... back when I danced with the San Francisco Ballet, I saw all kinds of things... sorry, back to January. We call it The Newer Than New Year’s Fling. Two hundred or so good people, a grand buffet, champagne, full orchestra, dancing. To be honest, too classy for that house. It’s rather vulgar, isn’t it? And gloomy, all that gray stone.”

I said, “It is different.”

“Exactly. So. Everything was rolling along according to plan. I was on the steering committee, had to stay on top of things. So I circulated, checking. I can’t tell you how many times but several and on one of them it happened — I think I will have some coffee.”

She poured, sweetened, sipped, and placed the cup back in its saucer. “The property, we brought in lighting but not enough so it was dark in some of the distant spots. Mostly behind a gazebo, along the rear of the property. I wanted to make sure no one would go back there, trip and fall. Some of our people are on the elderly side.”

A well-shaped silver fingernail tapped the cup. She reached for a graham cracker, snapped it in two, studied both halves, and placed them next to the cup. “I heard it before I saw it. Heavy breathing, my first thought was, Uh-oh, someone did fall. So I hurried over.”

Deep inhalation. “I’m no prude but I was thrown pretty hard.” Eyelids lowered and rose. She gnawed her bottom lip. “Heavy breathing? You know what I’m getting at.”

Milo said, “Two people having sex?”

“Against the rear hedge. Standing up. The woman’s back was to me, her dress was up to her waist, and the man was... I’m sure I don’t need to draw you a picture.”

“No, ma’am.”

Candace Kierstead said, “I stopped in my tracks but he turned and saw me. And that’s when I got scared because he looked really angry. As if I was the intruder.”

Deep sigh. “I’d helped compile the invite list and this guy was not on it.”

“What about the woman?”

“I never saw her face but from the back she looked too... I’ll be perfectly frank, she looked too young. Young legs, at least. That’s not the Daylighters’ crowd. I’m a good ten years younger than every other woman in the group. These were definitely crashers. And he’s getting irate? I thought, How dare you! So I managed to collect my courage and came right out and said, ‘You need to stop this now and leave.’ Something to that effect. You’d think he’d be embarrassed and get moving. Just the opposite. He just gritted his teeth and kept going. Faster! So I ran off to get Sig but by the time I located him and got him back there, they were gone. And when I asked the security people, they had no clue. Sig said I shouldn’t make a fuss, it would poop the party. But now that something’s happened at the same place, I just thought I should tell you.”

Milo said, “You thought right. What did the man look like?”

“Thirties, dark hair.” Quick intake of breath. “To be frank, somewhat good looking. In a certain way.”

“What way?”

“Not substantive good looks. The kind of guy you see all over L.A., spends too much time in front of the mirror.”

Milo took out his phone, scrolled to Richard Gurnsey’s DMV photo, and showed it to Candace Kierstead.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God, that’s him! He’s a mass murderer? I got that close to a serial killer?”

A tremor began at her shoulders and coursed down her torso.

Milo said, “You were never in danger, Candace.”

“But—”

“He’s not a murderer.”

“What then?”

“He’s a victim.”

“Oh,” she said. “So telling you this is important. Wow.” She played with her hair. “Who is he?”

“As I said, can’t get into details.”

“Oh, of course, sorry — so he actually came back there? Was it also a benefit? Was exploiting a good cause his thing?”

Milo said, “May I show you some other faces to see if you recognize them?” and scrolled to Benny Alvarez’s social service I.D. photo.

“No,” she said. “Never seen him.”

Same response to Solomon Roget and the unidentified woman. “Who are all these people?”

Milo smiled. “I wish I could be more specific—”

“Sorry, sorry... I have to say, Lieutenant, they’re a diverse group, aren’t they? If they’re also victims, it’s as if someone’s trying to kill a variety of people. To murder the world.”

Reed stood outside Milo’s office door. Troubled look on his baby-face. Detective colic.

He said, “Got a number Gurnsey called three times in January and once last Wednesday but it’s—”

“A non-traceable beater.”

Colossal shoulders dropped. Maybe the Richter scale at Cal Tech could feel it.

Reed said, “Sorry, L.T. By-the-hour cheapie. A 410 area code, which is Baltimore but geography doesn’t matter, these things are bought and sold in bulk.”

I said, “Still, maybe someone’s got a Baltimore link.”

Neither detective was impressed by the suggestion.

Milo said, “Who answers?”

“You said not to call them.”

“So I did. Okay, let’s give it a go.”

Reed handed him the phone list. “The one underlined in red.”

Milo lurched into his office and jabbed at his desk phone. Slammed down the receiver.

“Out of service. Guess it’s no surprise someone who slaughters four people is gonna be careful.”

His eyes returned to the list. “The numbers you marked in yellow are what?”

Reed said, “I made a list of anything that comes back to a personal number, not business. Eleven numbers but one is the roommate, Briggs. I marked his R.”

He took a step into the office and pointed. “Briggs and Gurnsey don’t talk that much, last time was four days prior to the murder, which matches what he told you about Gurnsey going away for the weekend. I haven’t finished backward-booking all ten but the six I have done are females. I’ve listed them on the back.”

Milo flipped and read. “Admirably organized, kid. Finish with the last four, meanwhile I’ll start contacting.”

“Um, one more thing, L.T. I know you wanted Alicia to keep checking the stores for those tear-off ads but I already asked her to do something else and couldn’t reach her to call her off until just before you got here.”

“What’d you ask?”

“Run background on the six females. Maybe she should finish the last four?”

Milo smiled. “I defer to your initiative and judgment, Moses. Send her up when she’s got everything.”

By Friday, ten a.m., I’d taken a four-mile run followed by a brief stroll for Blanche as a cool-down. Robin was busy in the studio, so breakfast for the other woman in my life, coffee for me as I checked my service.

Even professional screeners have trouble filtering noise and it was mostly that. Except for a call from Judge Martin Bevilacqua.

Marty was a smart, organized jurist who tried to be fair when cynicism didn’t get in the way. The custody cases I’d worked in his court had turned out as well as could be expected.

I reached him in his chambers.

“Alex.”

“Thanks for getting back to me.”

“I was intrigued. Ansar’s not your case but you’re asking about it.”

“Police work.”

“That aspect of your life, huh? Can’t let go of the excitement?”

“Keeps life interesting. I called because some murder victims were found at the Ansar property.”

“Victims, plural?” he said.

“Benedict Canyon.”

“Oh. Didn’t put it together because the news said Beverly Hills and I’ve been working Ansar long enough to know it’s L.A.”

“Minor inaccuracy.”

“Okay for the media but no such thing in my field. People hate each other they pounce on every misplaced letter. Murder, huh? Maybe it’s not a surprise. These two despise each other.” A beat. “You’re not telling me one of them was a victim?”

“No,” I said.

“Who, then?”

“It’s a strange one, Marty.”

“That aspect of your life, aren’t they all? Strange, how?”

“This needs to stay between us. Four victims with no apparent relationship to each other.”

“A gang thing?”

“Are the Ansars gang-connected?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “What their cousins do over in Afghanistan, who knows? What do you want to know about them?”

“The basics of the divorce.”

“It’s public record, you can get a transcript, Alex. But you generally don’t bullshit me so I won’t sentence you to reading thousands of pages of yakkety-yak. The gist is Matin and Ramineh Ansar have been here fifteen years, both are U.S. citizens. He’s rich from banking and real estate, she says also from graft. She’s rich from inheritance, he says also from graft. Bottom line, there’s enough money on both sides to feed the sharks so the damn thing drags on. The custody aspect’s what you’d expect. Two kids, boy, girl, they gave them American names... Dylan and Courtney. Cute little kids, four and six, mutual accusations that amount to crap because of the crap expert witnesses the sharks have hired. World War Three, obviously, is the money.”

I said, “She claims she financed the bulk of his ventures, he says she’s a lazy princess who did nothing but spend.”

“Ah, great oracle of Beverly Glen. What makes it especially stupid, Alex, is they’re wasting time, money, and stomach acid on a relatively small amount. Twelve million, basically the house and some art — yeah, yeah, I know, for the average person it’s a big deal. But trust me, either of them probably has overseas dough, they could afford to split the U.S. estate down the middle. You’d think they’d respond to my sage advice to do just that. You’d be wrong.”

“Who are the sharks?”

“Trapp and Trapp versus Charteroff.”

“See what you mean.”

“Even they’re getting worn out, but the principals won’t budge. Surprisingly, the kids were doing okay, per the therapist — Alfree London. You were busy so I’m using her. One suggestion they did take was separating her from the expert witness shrinks.”

He tossed out two names. “You feel otherwise?”

I said, “No, they’re whores and Alfree’s a good therapist.”

“Unfortunately, she hasn’t been able to therapize because Mrs. Ansar took the kids out of the country. Not much I could do other than write an order to return because she blindsided Mister, neither had asked for travel restrictions. He was certain she went over to Europe, hired private eyes who traced her to Paris then Monte Carlo then Belgium before the trail got cold. Can’t see her heading back to Kabul but you know how it is when people don’t think straight.”

“Why’s she so angry?”

“What do you think, Alex? Matin watches too much porn and fools with other women. He claims she’s been sexually unresponsive for years and hints she’s gay. What the truth is, who knows? Or cares. Hopefully the kids aren’t in some Taliban kindergarten. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of. Thanks, Marty.”

“As long as we’re talking, a new one landed on my desk yesterday. Likely to be equally vitriolic but the parties are only semi-big rich, so at some point it’ll end. You up for it?”

“Happy to take a look.”

“Good man,” he said. “After mass murder, you’re going to glide through it.”

Kagan, Kiprianidos, Blunt, and Shapiro occupied one of a dozen suites on the third floor of a determinedly undistinguished steel and gray-glass building on Wilshire just west of Robertson. Cheap black carpeting, cheap white doors, Thai food aromas wafting from somewhere.

I’d looked up the firm as Milo drove. Aviation and air-transport law. No associates, just the four partners. Joan Blunt had solid qualifications: B.A. from Penn, J.D. from Berkeley.

Her website photo was the Instagram shot Milo had commented on. Accurately. Milky oval face graced by full lips, enormous blue eyes, firm, dimpled chin. All of that under luxuriant black hair.

Broad, square shoulders suggested vitality. So did her extracurricular interests: marathons and piloting jet planes with instrument certification.

Her waiting room was three stiff-backed chairs on either side of a brown-marble floor. No one waiting. Magazines filled a plastic wall rack. Chagall prints not even pretending to be real hung on three beige walls: cows, fiddlers, bemused brides floating midair.

A young ponytailed blonde in jeans and a black T-shirt looked up from a no-nonsense reception desk and smiled automatically. Behind her, more beige. The kind of wallpaper you see in hospitals because it’s easy to clean.

Milo introduced himself. The receptionist’s smile flickered and fizzled.

“Um, you called before.”

“We did.”

“I’m sorry, she’s super busy. If you want to make an appointment—”

“Not necessary, we can wait.”

“Um... it’s not necessary.”

“It is for us.”

“Um... hold on — please have a seat. Okay?”

We remained on our feet but moved back a few inches to give her the illusion of privacy. She punched an extension. Nervous eyes scanned us as she spoke softly into the receiver. Frowned.

“In a moment.”

Dr. Ellen Cerillos’s name was listed at the bottom of a ten-physician roster. Valley Oaks Women’s Wellness Center took up the ground floor of a wheat-colored building on Moorpark just east of Van Nuys Boulevard. On the second, a six-dentist group specializing in oral surgery and cosmetic reconstruction.

Joan Blunt’s waiting room had been small and silent. This space was the size of a double garage and crowded with women, several of whom held babies in their arms. A notable number of the babies squalled. That noise reduced a piped-in new-age music soundtrack to bleeps, burps, and fragments of synthesized tones.

Interesting mix of fragrances: infant-poop, zwieback, perfume, antiseptic wipes.

Heads turned as Milo and I stepped in. Stares followed us as we took our place behind an exhausted-looking woman at the reception window who appeared precariously ready to deliver. An earnest conversation continued between her and a gray-haired receptionist. Scheduled C-section, still working out insurance details. Two other women worked in the front office, both busy clicking keyboards. The only people not paying us any mind.

One of the waiting patients nudged the woman next to her and pointed at us. Murmurs circulated; vocal relay race fueled by curiosity.

The weary woman stepped away and found a seat. The gray-haired woman said, “Yes?”

Milo leaned close, showed his card, covering Homicide with his thumb. His voice was soft, conspiratorial. “Is Dr. Cerillos in?”

“She’s with a patient.”

“Could you please tell her it’s about Richard Gurnsey.”

“Who’s that?”

“A friend.”

The receptionist cocked an eyebrow. “She’s booked until seven, why don’t you try later?”

“We may have to,” said Milo. “But if you could tell her.”

“The police, huh?” Loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yes, ma’am. We’d appreciate if—”

“The police,” she repeated, cranking up the volume. As if sharing a joke with an audience. “Hoe-wold on.”

She got up slowly, walked to the right, and disappeared. Half a minute later, the door to the inner office opened. “Must be a good friend. Fifth door to the right.”

Returning to her desk, she shuffled forms and held up a finger. “Ms. Langer? Step back up for a sec.”

We stopped for coffee at a diner on Moorpark near Fulton. Twenty-year-old retro refit of what had once been a chain restaurant. Two decades of paradigm shift made it an L.A. antiquity.

The place was thinly occupied and smelled of vintage grease. Pastries revolved in a slo-mo, sugar-flecked case. Milo glanced at them, contemplated, shook his head.

A middle-aged waitress in a too-tight brown dress came over smiling, took our coffee order, and straightened her lips when Milo said, “Just coffee.”

“We’ve got nice pies, boys.”

Milo glanced at the menu. “Okay, throw in a slice of your ‘famous berry-merry.’ ”

“There you go, bone-apperteet.”

“Is it really famous?”

“Sure,” she said. “Isn’t everything, nowadays?”

We returned to Milo’s office and set to work tracing Mary Jane Huralnik using separate pathways.

Beyond her minor arrests nothing further on any law enforcement database. A Social Security number issued fifty years ago yielded nothing, including disability payments. No claims on money she could’ve gotten. Someone low on self-care.

She didn’t show in my Google search but the uncommon surname provided an edge.

Four Huralniks in the U.S. John in Omaha, Louise in Columbus, Ohio, Hampton in Dover, New Hampshire, a Honda dealer named Randall Huralnik in Stockton, California.

Milo said, “Like the trendoids say, keep it local,” and started with Randall. Forty-two years old, no criminal record. An internet photo showed him corpulent and ruddy with a mop of brown hair and a pendulous nose.

Milo said, “Forty-two. I luck out and he’s Mary’s kid, she was a kid when she had him.”

He phoned the dealership, asked the woman who answered to put him through to Randall Huralnik.

She said, “Randy? Hold on.”

We endured several minutes of Beatles music bowdlerized to easy listening before a hearty voice boomed, “This is Randy! How can I help you today?”

“Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. Police Department.”

“L.A.?” said Huralnik. “What’s going on down there?”

“Sir, are you by any chance related to Mary Jane Huralnik?”

“Aunt Mary? She finally got herself in some serious trouble?”

“The worst type of trouble, sir. I’m afraid she’s deceased.”

“Oh. That’s real sad news, Lieutenant.” Randy Huralnik’s sigh sounded like a gust of static. “I guess I’m not surprised. Alcohol poisoning?”

“She was murdered, Mr. Huralnik.”

“Oh. Huh. Well, that’s terrible news. Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What can you tell us about your aunt?”

“Tell,” said Huralnik, as if practicing a foreign word. “Not much to tell. She’s my mom’s younger sister, left when she was young and only came back once in a while. To get money from my parents. Which was crazy, there were all kinds of benefits she could’ve gotten but she claimed the government would hunt her down and put her in a cage.”

“Mental issues.”

“To say the least.”

“Did she have kids of her own?”

“Nope, never married, no kids.” A beat. “There was a thought that she was, you know, gay. My dad used to say that but my mom disagreed. I couldn’t tell you who was right.”

“Any family connections beyond your parents?”

“Nope, that’s it,” said Randy Huralnik. “I guess you’d call her a loner.”

Milo said, “How often would she visit to get money?”

“Not often. Maybe... two times a year, three? And not every year.”

“Any idea how she supported herself?”

“Dad said she was probably prostituting, Mom said no way. Again, can’t tell you. She hasn’t been back in a real long time, sir. Since before my dad died, which was twelve years ago, so, say... fourteen? Couple years later, Mom passed. I would’ve invited Mary to the funeral, but I had no idea how to reach her.”

“What’s your last memory of her?”

“Last one... okay, I was at the house helping my dad, he was sick with the Alzheimer’s. Suddenly Mary’s there, didn’t even hear her. Dad was on a walker but she didn’t ask how he was, just went in to see Mom. She looked terrible. She had problems.”

“Alcohol?”

“Sure, that,” said Randy Huralnik, “but I always thought she was off even without the drink. She was just... you know, different. Never looking at you, walking around with her lips moving.”

“Talking to herself.”

“That’s what it seemed to me. My dad called her the wolf the pack would’ve left behind. I know that sounds mean but I respect his opinion.”

I mouthed, Mom.

Milo said, “Your mother didn’t agree with him?”

“It was an issue between them, yeah,” said Huralnik. “But not a big one, she wasn’t around much.”

“Did Mary ever talk about friends, acquaintances, people she hung out with?”

“Not that I heard, sir. She and Mom would have conversations but I stayed away from them. Life’s hard enough without bringing extra problems on yourself.”

“That’s for sure,” said Milo. “So she never asked you for money?”

“Never,” said Huralnik. “She had, I’da said no. Maybe she knew that. Maybe she wasn’t that crazy.”

Further research on Stephen Wayne Vollmann revealed a thirty-one-year-old Iraqi war vet employed as a pool maintenance man for a Granada Hills company named Agua Fresca, Ltd. No priors, wants, or warrants, good driving record. A six-year-old blue Camaro was registered at an address on Cochran Avenue in mid-city that matched Marcella McGann’s.

A call to Agua Fresca, Ltd., earned him an earful from the owner, a hoarse-voiced man named Lachlan Lindley.

“Him? Totally flaked on me.”

“Since when?”

“Since Wednesday when he was supposed to be here. Why are the cops after him?”

“He and his girlfriend were scheduled to go to Mexico but never showed up. We’re looking at them as missing persons.”

“Oh. Steve’s never flaked before. It is kind of weird.”

Milo said, “Did he talk about his trip?”

“Just that it was at some big resort, he was going to ride a dolphin,” said Lindley. “He was pretty excited, first time south of the border. He never showed up? Damn. You think some cartel got him? You know what it’s like. They’re mowing people down and the cops there are in on it.”

“Did Steve talk about his girlfriend?”

“Just that she was going with him. Shit. You think she did it? Shoved him off a boat or something?”

“Why would I think that?”

“ ’Cause it happens,” said Lindley. “People are in a relationship and someone goes nuts. There was that guy in New York, goes boating, chick he thinks loves him shoves him into the river, he’s drowning and she’s sitting there eating a sandwich. Talk about evil.”

Milo said, “Vollmann’s chick isn’t a suspect. You ever meet her?”

“Nope, didn’t even know her name,” said Lindley. “Don’t socialize with the staff, period. They do their routes, I mail them their checks.”

“Relaxed setup,” said Milo.

“If everyone does their job it is. I used to service myself, loved anything to do with water, swam at Cal State Northridge. Then I dove the wrong way and ended up in a wheelchair.”

“Sorry.”

“For what?” said Lindley. “You play the hand you’re dealt.”

“Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Got plenty of it.”

A call to an Inglewood detective named Marcus Coolidge gave him the details: Two bodies had been found in that city the Monday after the Benedict bloodbath.

Male victim in his thirties sitting in the front passenger seat of a blue Camaro, female vic in the trunk of the car. As with the limo, the paucity of blood said the killings had taken place elsewhere. Best guess of TOD based on decomposition was Sunday. Same day the limo had been found.

The Camaro’s registration plus the age and physical stats of the male victim suggested he was Stephen W. Vollmann but no formal verification.

Coolidge said, “I’m sure it’s him but like I said there was decomp and we’re talking a shotgun, 12-gauge, not much face or teeth left. Vollmann’s got no prints on file so until the DNA comes in, I’m not allowed to make it official.”

Milo said, “He’s a vet, the army may have prints.”

“Ah. Good. I’ll get on that, thanks.”

“Vollmann had a girlfriend—”

“Marcella McGann,” said Coolidge. “Found her on his Facebook, the photos I saw of her match my female in general terms. But she got hit even closer-range than Vollmann and no prints from her, her hands were obliterated, probably from holding them up defensively.”

“Nasty.”

“Worst scene I’ve had in a while. One weird thing: The pathologist also found a knife wound in Vollmann, nonfatal, between the ribs, missed organs but damaged muscle. Would’ve caused big-time pain and made Vollmann easier to control and shoot. Vollmann’s pretty good-sized so maybe cutting him first was insurance. But I’ve never seen that before and a shotgun’s more than enough to get the job done.”

“Where was the car found?”

“Hindry Avenue, industrial area. Behind a painting supply warehouse.”

“Tough area?”

“This is Inglewood, man. Tough’s our thing. Including citizens making wrong turns on their way to the airport, you’d be amazed at some of the directions the stupid computer kicks out. Which is what I’ve been thinking for these two.”

“They were planning a trip to Mexico.”

“There you go. We’ve got four major gangs operating in and around and with no wallets, I.D., or jewelry, I’ve been figuring it for a robbery gone really bad. Which is a sensitive topic, you know?”

“Bad for tourism.”

“Bad for tourism,” said Coolidge, “plus the racial thing. White people get killed, there’s two rules from the bosses: Keep your mouth shut and be right about everything.”

Milo said, “If it was a robbery, why bother shooting them elsewhere and transporting them in the car? Why not rip off the car, for that matter?”

“Interesting questions. I catch the offender, I might get answers. So far nothing from my informants and every gangster I’ve talked to denies having anything to do with it and I have to say they’re coming across righteous. Why’re you interested?”

Milo told him.

Coolidge said, “Oh, boy. So it could be totally different from what I figured.”

“If it’s connected to mine, it’s big-time different.”

“Amazing. My situation, you don’t get too many surprises. We should meet, no?”

“Definitely.”

“Your shop or mine?”

“Anything to learn from your crime scene?”

“Nah, it’s long cleaned up and there was nothing important in the first place, just the car between a couple of dumpsters, low branches from a tree hanging over it.”

Milo said, “Not hidden but not look-at-me, either.”

“My thinking exactly,” said Coolidge. “Weekend’s coming up, I’m off shift in an hour. How about we meet today, your shop. I live in Playa, getting home after rush hour won’t be as bad.”

“You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“How about a deli?”

“Never met a deli I didn’t like.”

“Place called Maury’s.” Milo gave the address. “When can you be there?”

“Traffic, detours?” said Coolidge. “Give me forty. I’m late, order me a pastrami on rye. Don’t trim the fat.”

Maury’s Deluxe Delicatessen was a generous, glass-fronted room, dill-and-salty aromatic. A clutch of people waited to be seated. I’d never been there but Milo had because we were pulled ahead of the queue and given a corner booth by a jubilant hostess who said, “Great to see you again!”

Cops tip generously; my friend kicks up the average.

Saturday morning I slept in until eight thirty. More rehab than recreation; trying to squeeze some brain-rest out of a night filled with bloody images.

Nearly a week had passed since the horror on Ascot Lane. People abused as children get good at compartmentalizing and I’m no exception. For most of the week, I’d intellectualized the slaughter, putting on blinders by concentrating on the details.

Now the totality was hitting me. Another pile of pictures never to be deleted.

Robin’s side of the bed was empty. I found her in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading. One hand dangled and tickled the top of Blanche’s knobby head.

She put down her book and warmed me with a smile. “Morning, darling. Eggs okay?”

“Perfect.”

She got up and I caught her midway to the fridge and kissed her. When I let go, I made sure to show her a smiling face and relaxed shoulders. Then I sat and took over massaging Blanche.

Neither of the females in my life was fooled.

Blanche looked up at me with a cocked head, big brown eyes full of pity. Robin took out the egg carton and said, “Tough night, huh?”

“I kept you up?”

“Only when you thrashed — don’t apologize, we all go through it.”

“Not you.”

“Oh, yes, I’m perfect, darling. Remember two months ago? That piece of Adirondack spruce I paid a fortune for, I get it here and it splinters?”

“Don’t remember you thrashing.”

“I’m a jaw-grinder. Had headaches for a week.” She cracked five eggs into a bowl and whisked. “You gently rubbed my temples.”

“Did it help?”

“The fact that you cared helped. Plain scrambled or with stuff? There’s some of that pastrami from last night.”

“Stuff sounds good.”

“Bring whatever you want from the fridge then call Milo.”

“About what?”

“He phoned half an hour ago, we didn’t get into details, you know how he shields me.” She smiled. “Not wanting to upset perfection.”

How much I tell her has been an issue for us. This time I’d given her enough basics not to feel marginalized. But no sense piling on the cruelest details.

I said, “Gallant.”

“When he pushes the right button, he’s got it in him.”

I headed for my office.

Robin said, “When he asked where you were, I told him you were snoozing.”

“And he made a crack, right? Let me guess: Prince Charming getting his beauty sleep. Babe in dreamland?”

“Nope. He said you deserved it.”

I picked him up in front of the station at six thirty-five p.m. Dressed as close to stylish as I’d ever seen: gray suit, black shirt, skinny brown tie. Pointy black oxfords instead of the desert boots.

I said, “New shoes?”

“Italian. Rick’s.”

We took the Seville at his request: “We’re talking art and your wheels are a lot more aesthetic.”

The drive downtown was a surprisingly smooth cruise on the 10 East slowed by construction detours and the need to navigate mostly empty one-way streets.

I found parking at a lot on Sixth and we walked to Hart Street, passing dark storefronts and several homeless people with placards, all of whom Milo ignored. No less altruistic by nature than with the legless man; preoccupied.

We stood across the street watching as a swarm of people crowded the sidewalk in front of Verlang Contemporary. A sign in the window read Melted Visions: An Opening.

The two neighboring galleries remained dark, as were the jeweler and the building’s top two floors. The only other illumination on the block came from The Flower Drum motel’s empty lobby. Clerk sitting alone in a glass-encased booth working his phone.

Milo said, “Hipster crowd. Think we can fake it?”

I pointed to the tie. “That doesn’t do it, we could go arm-in-arm if you don’t tell Robin and I don’t tell Rick.”

He laughed but not for very long. Narrowing his eyes, he watched the crowd for a few seconds. A single car passed. Then a bicyclist wearing a knit cap, pedaling a rattling one-gear with effort.

“Okay, here we go.”

As we made our way out of the gallery, I searched for Dugong in the crowd. In a corner, blocking one of his paintings as he sulked and gulped Prosecco. Not even pretending to listen to a shaved-head, six-foot woman’s arm-waving description of something.

Angry eyes. No red dots on any of the paintings indicating a sale. Reacting to that or was his emotional thermostat set permanently on high?

We stepped outside into soothing silence and headed up Hart. The same homeless people plus a few more. The stench of self-neglect assaulted the cool spring air in noxious bursts. This time Milo handed out money. A few blessings, a lot of stupor.

He said, “The mayor lets it get this way and also thinks he can be president — problem is maybe he can.”

I said, “Geoffrey’s got a temper problem.”

“He does, indeed. What’d you think of Medina?”

“Never had my belly button appraised before.”

“Touchy-feely but cold,” he said. “The way she stood in the doorway and did this.” Caressing his sleeve. “Like being prodded during a physical.”

“I got that plus a love-bump, here.” Patting my flank.

“Now I’m jealous — fine, you’re cuter.”

“She’s also got a protégé who comes unglued easily and the gallery was Benny’s last destination before being killed. I find all that interesting.”

“Fascinating,” he said. “I mean it.”

As I drove, he ran Okash through the databases. “Well, well, well, our girl’s got a record, all in New York. Three DUIs and one cocaine but also an assault conviction... looks like she cut up another woman outside a Lower East Side bar, served seven months of a two-year sentence at the Bedford Hills women’s prison. One bust but it’s still serious violence. Maybe she just got craftier.”

I said, “One thing for sure, she learned to suppress her emotions. Or never had a problem in the first place. Dugong’s a loose cannon but she wasn’t thrown an inch by his tantrum.”

“Yeah, I saw that, patronizing. You’re an idiot child, Geoffy.”

“She didn’t mention Dugong being with her on Saturday when she was setting up his show but artists often participate. And the prep could’ve begun earlier. As in Friday, when Benny was there.”

His shoulders bunched as he pushed his palms against the glove compartment door. “Okash coulda lied about leaving Benny alone in the gallery. If Dugong could get that pissed about Okash ducking out for a minute, a slow guy like Benny making some kind of mistake could’ve really set him off. He drags Benny to the back, shoots him in the head. Poor guy went in but never came out.”

I said, “Small-caliber bullet, the mess would’ve been manageable. But the show was coming up so the body needed to be moved. Friday, Benny doesn’t return, McGann gets worried about Benny and phones the gallery. Okash ignores her, so the following morning, before she’s due to leave for Mexico, McGann and Vollmann show up and ask the wrong questions. Like Coolidge said, Vollmann was a big guy, so he was subdued first with a knife then obliterated by a shotgun in order to delay identification. Okash and Dugong find the airline tickets, wait until after dark, and dump the bodies near the airport, where it’ll look like what Coolidge assumed: a wrong-way gang thing. They use Vollmann’s Camaro for transport and another vehicle to get away.”

He stayed silent. I maneuvered the downtown interchange, got on the 10 West, and passed three exits.

I said, “The only problem is Benny’s murder being an impulsive lashing out by Dugong doesn’t fit with three other victims and the choreography we saw in the limo. So what if by the time Benny showed up on Friday he’d been long groomed for victimhood. Because he fit a role in a script. The worst kind of casting call.”

“Back to the production thing.” He slapped the glove compartment door. “I’ve got something fits better, Alex. What planet do Okash and Dugong inhabit? Maybe we need to start thinking about performance art.”

My gut tightened. Good sign. “I like it.”

“I’m developing a major crush on it — okay, time to check out this artiste’s history.”

He returned to his phone, clicked awhile, and sat back. “Just petty stuff in Florida, some under Dugong, most under his real name, Jeffrey Mitchell Dowd.” He scrolled. “Weed, weed, DUI, weed, DUI, cocaine, weed. All personal use, total of... five days’ jail time over twelve years. Why the hell couldn’t he be cooperatively violent?”

“What if meeting Okash changed that?”

“Femme fatale?”

I said, “She could be his patron in more ways than one. From what I saw, if they do have a relationship, she’s the dominant one. Meaning she could be free to explore sexually, like with Ricky Gurnsey. And it’s not a stretch to see Gurnsey being attracted to all that sexual energy.”

“Medina and Ricky against a hedge. Hmh.”

I said, “Geoffrey goes along with it until he doesn’t.”

“The two of them work through their relationship issues by killing four people?”

“More like taking it to the next step.”

Dr. Hillaire Roget was five-six in shoes, compactly built, with a closely cropped head of dense white hair and a mustache to match. He wore a beautifully tailored olive-green suit, a white dress shirt, and perforated shoes the color of peanut butter.

His sister, Dr. Madeleine Roget-Cohen, was at least five-nine in shoes, slim and broad-shouldered with an artfully styled head of straightened, hennaed hair.

I’d seen their father’s corpse and knew him to be tall. My guess was short mother, one of those random shuffles of the genetic deck.

They sat close to each other on one of two spotless, matching blue sofas in what had once been Solomon Roget’s living room. The apartment was what I’d expected from Milo’s account of his search. Sparely but adequately furnished, impeccably kept when you considered no one had tended it for the week-plus since the murders. Photos of a young Solomon with a pretty wife shared space with shots of the children from toddlerhood to med school graduation, then the grandkids. Where lineage didn’t rule the walls, Roget had hung prints of Haiti portrayed as a tropical Eden.

Before Milo knocked on the door, he’d asked if I should be identified as a psychologist.

I said, “Why not? How people react is always interesting.”

The Roget sibs had reacted by nodding, shaking my hand briefly, then looking away. After Milo and I sat, Madeleine said, “Does that mean there’s a psychiatric component to the crime?”

Milo said, “When I spoke to your brother, Doctor, I told him I couldn’t get into details. That’s still true but what I can tell you is your father wasn’t the only victim. There were three others, in the back of his limousine.”

Hillaire said, “We know that, Lieutenant. Googled and came up with a crime that fit.”

Madeleine said, “All the accounts list the location as Beverly Hills but when we ran map searches, it’s in Los Angeles.”

“True,” said Milo.

“So there may be other inaccuracies?”

“There usually are.”

Silence.

Milo said, “Everything points to your dad being an innocent bystander. He drove the wrong client.”

Hillaire said, “Does that mean one of the three in the back was the killer?”

“No chance of that, sir. Best guess is they were already dead by the time your father picked up the killer.”

“He was used for his car,” said Madeleine.

“That’s the working assumption, ma’am.”

“And you have no idea who this devil is.”

“The problem is your father didn’t have an online presence, he didn’t leave behind any written logs, and the only number on his phone list that conceivably matches the time frame belongs to a non-traceable pay-as-you-go phone.”

“The kind criminals use,” said Madeleine.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hillaire said, “So you’ve searched here in the apartment?”

“Soon after,” said Milo.

The siblings looked at each other.

Milo said, “You thought I hadn’t?”

Madeleine said, “It’s so tidy, doesn’t look as if anything’s been disturbed.”

“I try to conduct my searches with respect.”

Hillaire sighed. “Please excuse us for thinking you were dilatory.” His voice choked. “Thank you for honoring our father’s home.”

“Of course. Have you done any looking around?”

“This morning,” said Madeleine. Small smile. “We weren’t as neat as you. We also found nothing that seemed — would the word be ‘probative’?”

“Evidentiary,” said her brother.

“In any event, we learned nothing, Lieutenant. Though we did come up with some photos of our parents back when Mother was alive.”

Milo said, “Small leather album in the top right-hand dresser drawer.”

Madeleine smiled.

Hillaire said, “Father was always on us to be tidy.”

Madeleine said, “We weren’t always compliant.” Her turn to choke up.

Both of them began to cry.

Milo tapped his supply of tissues and gave one to each of them.

Madeleine was the first to break the silence, letting out a raspy laugh. “You certainly come prepared.”

Milo smiled.

“What a job you have, Lieutenant. Maybe it’s good you’re here, Dr. Delaware. Maybe we could use some therapy.”

Milo said, “Let’s check out that market. You mind driving? I need to think.”

I took Olympic east to San Vicente, continued past La Brea where the street turned to Venice Boulevard, hooked a right on Western, and drove a block south of Jefferson.

Tough neighborhood since the fifties, ravaged four decades later by the self-destruction sparked by the Rodney King riots. During the ensuing decades, no shortage of talk about renewal from politicians. But L.A.’s not a movie town for nothing; people get paid well to act.

Some of the storefronts had been rehabbed. More were boarded or empty and the overall feel was drab and sad.

J&M Caribbean Market was one of the bright spots, a single story of cement block painted lemon yellow and lime green, with hot-pink, bubbly-font signage asserting itself under a spotless red awning. A rolling iron accordion fence was pushed to the right side of the building.

A parking lot to the left was secured by a sliding metal-picket gate, now wide open. Two cars in the lot, a wine-colored Cadillac DeVille and a gold Buick Century. I parked between them. Three American sedans grouped like that evoked Detroit in its prime.

We walked around to the market’s entrance. Dead-bolted glass door. Milo rang the bell, someone moved behind the glass, and ten seconds later we were beeped in.

The market’s interior was immaculate, well lit, and fragrant — florals, citrus, a heavy layer of allspice. Fresh maple laminate covered the floor. High white walls were banded at the top by a belt of Z-Brick.

White display cases showcased bags of red beans and rice, precooked meat meals, packages of “fruta” and “gandules.” Conventional produce was stacked alongside plantains, okra labeled as “gumbo,” and tubers I couldn’t name. The beverage case cooled American beer along with Prestige from Port-au-Prince, Red Stripe and Gong 71st fruit beer from Jamaica. Cans of Coke and Pepsi and Mountain Dew shared space with golden Cola Couronne and Pineapple Ginger soda.

Behind the register, candles and the heralded herbs and oils.

One customer, a woman in her seventies, pushing a cart. A young Hispanic man swept the floor, careful to get into the corners. A dreadlocked woman in her thirties worked the register.

She smiled. Warmly, instinctually. Took a closer look and said, “Police?” but held on to a sunny face.

Milo said, “Want a job as a detective?”

The woman giggled, then turned serious. “Please don’t tell me something bad happened on the block. Usually I hear about it before you get here.”

“Nothing, ma’am, sorry if we alarmed you. We’re looking for a message board but I see you don’t have one.”

“Oh, we do,” she said. “Juan removed it to clear and clean a few days ago — we soap and water it regularly, all those hands? When it dries out, it goes back there.” Pointing to four feet of wall space at the right of the door.

“Did you by any chance hold on to any of the postings?”

“No, they’re tossed. Out with the old, in with the new, that way more people get to post. Why’re you interested in the board?”

“A man who we’re told shopped here was murdered last week and we’re trying to find a connection between anyone he did business with.”

“Murdered?” Both hands took hold of her chin. “So something did happen.”

“Not here, ma’am, on the Westside.”

“The Westside — that’s a switch. Who’s this person?”

Milo showed her Roget’s picture.

“Mr. Solomon? Oh, no.”

“You know him by name.”

“He wasn’t a regular but he did come in enough for us to chat. And yes, he did post his ads. A chauffeur, right — poor Mr. Solomon. You think someone who hired him killed him?”

“We’re looking into everything.”

“It couldn’t be my customers,” she said. “I don’t get gangsters, and the Rastas who buy from me are serious about their faith. I even get white folk. Students and faculty from USC and Mount Saint Mary’s. I used to work in administration at Mount Saint Mary’s, my husband’s an electrician there. Last week he sent me a dean of nursing and she bought up all of my sausage. We’re getting a reputation, some of those downtown hipster types are starting to come in, it’s a well-behaved clientele, I wouldn’t tolerate otherwise.”

“Got it, Ms...”

“Frieda Graham. Why would anyone hurt Mr. Solomon? He was such a gentleman... I know, it’s a foolish question.”

Milo said, “We ask ourselves the same thing pretty often.”

“Some job you have. Anyway, sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“Could we show you some photos?”

“Of who?”

“People who might be involved — not suspects, just involved. We’d like to know if they’ve ever been here.”

“I can’t remember everyone, but I’ll give it a try, why not.”

“She’s a customer,” said Milo.

“Definitely,” said Frieda Graham. “That hair — I think last time it was purple. But definitely yes, that face. I remember her because she was touchy.”

“About what?”

“Not touchy-sensitive, touchy-feely. Like this.”

She leaned over the counter and dabbed his shoulder lightly with a green-nailed fingertip. “Like a pecking bird. Kind of annoying but you know, the customer’s always right. Hold on. Juan? Come over.”

The sweeper joined us. “She’s been here, right?”

He nodded.

“I told them she liked to do this.” Repeating the dabbing on Juan’s arm.

He laughed. “Mosquito.”

Milo said, “She ever give you problems, Juan?”

“No. Just mosquito.” Jabbing air. More laughter.

“Thanks.”

Juan returned to his broom.

Milo turned back to Graham. “Can you remember the last time she was here?”

“Hmm,” said Graham. “Not recently — maybe a month? Five, six weeks? Could even be longer. What I can tell you is she always bought the same thing: prepared jerk chicken dinner and Red Stripe — that’s a Jamaican beer. Also veggies — yellow and purple yams. That hair, I figured her for an artist. Am I right?”

“Art dealer.”

“Oh. That also makes sense. I assumed artist because one time she had a painting tucked under her arm — or maybe it was a drawing, I never actually saw it. Big, thin square wrapped in brown paper. She saw me looking at it and said she didn’t want to leave it in her car. Did she pull off one of Mr. Solomon’s tabs? Sorry, no idea. It’s a courtesy we extend to the neighborhood, we just make sure to keep the board squeaky clean.”

I said, “Don’t see any security cameras.”

“Oh, I’ve got some,” said Graham. “Two in the parking lot and another outside the rear door leading to the delivery area. But for the store, I rely on my rolling gate, my dead bolt, and my alarm. So far, we’ve been okay. Three false alarms during the fourteen months we’ve been here. Old wiring.”

“Do you have tape from the parking lot?”

“No, it self-cleans every forty-eight hours.”

“Thanks for your time, ma’am.”

“Of course. I hope you get whoever hurt Mr. Solomon.”

Milo crossed his fingers and we started for the door.

Frieda Graham said, “Can I give you guys something for the road? Just got some sandwiches made by a guy who runs the best Caribbean food truck in the city.”

Milo said, “Sounds great, but no thanks.”

“You’re sure?”

His voice and face said he was far from certain.

“Oh, c’mon.” Chuckling, Frieda Graham produced four sandwiches from under the counter and handed them to him. “It’s in my best interest. You’ll taste and want to come back. Two chickens, one crab, one ham and pineapple. All on hard-dough bread Robert bakes himself.”

Milo said, “You’re too kind.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Two hours later, Milo had commandeered the same interview room and set up a whiteboard. The only other equipment: a box of muffins from a bakery in West Hollywood.

No writing on the board, no complex mesh of directional arrows. That’s for the movies where plot elements need to be explained to the audience.

This was four knowledgeable detectives and me looking at a three-by-two array of victim photos to the left and enlarged DMV shots of Medina Okash and Geoffrey Dugong to the right.

Milo summarized what we’d learned at the Caribbean market.

Bogomil said, “So we know Okash had access to Roget’s little tabs but we can’t prove she actually took any.”

“Small steps, Alicia. Speaking of which, we get to subpoena her phone. That burner Gurnsey and Roget both talked to can’t be documented but maybe she carried a cell with an account and we can GPS her locations. Anything from the homeless folk?”

“I wish, L.T. No one remembers Huralnik at all, let alone any sexual bad habits.”

Reed said, “They’re transient, someone who did know her could be anywhere by now.”

Bogomil said, “Transient and brain-damaged. I saw one woman with these festering sores on her legs. I offered to call the EMTs. She told me to fuck myself in the ass.”

Milo said, “No good deed, it’s my version of Newton’s law.”

“Which one?” said Binchy.

“All of them, Sean. Moses, anything more from New York on Okash’s assault?”

Reed said, “One of the D’s who worked it is deceased, I reached the other, he’s in corporate security. He said he remembered the case ’cause it was different, one yuppie white girl pulling out a blade and slashing another across the face. Other than that, he was fuzzy, couldn’t recall motive. If he ever knew it. I finally got the victim’s name from the Seventh Precinct. Contessa Welles. No social network presence, no employment or death records, so maybe they got the name wrong.”

Bogomil said, “Or she avoids the limelight. Someone slashed my face, I might.” Touching her own smooth cheek.

Milo said, “Knife attack. That’s no catfight.”

He turned back to the board and jabbed Dugong’s beard. “Despite his dope busts, this prince isn’t currently known to Key West PD, under his marine-mammal moniker or his real one, Jeffrey Dowd. Sergeant I spoke to said they’ve got twenty-five thousand residents and a couple million tourists each year, it’s a constant balancing act between keeping bad behavior low and not pissing off the chamber of commerce. When I told her Dugong was an artist she suggested I try some of the galleries. So far I’m zero for eight. Until six years ago, the guy’s got no employment history, which fits day labor on a boat, like his bio said. Alex did find a website for his art.”

I said, “Six years ago, he began doing macramé, then switched to photographic collages. Painting started three years ago but he hasn’t produced much so he still may be working under the table — deckhand, fisherman, landscaping, maintenance.”

Bogomil said, “Tying knots and pasting up magazine photos. Any actual talent going on there?”

I said, “Put it this way: He’s got a loose brush.”

Laughter.

Milo said, “From what we saw his salesmanship skills are lacking.”

“A failure with a bad temper,” said Reed. “That’s combustible.”

“Exactly, Moses. He came across stupid angry, like a kid who habitually tantrums. We don’t see him as controlled enough to plan the limo.”

“Okash is the boss?”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “If the two of them are involved, she’s running the show.”

Bogomil said, “She aims Dugong, he shoots.”

“Makes sense,” said Reed. “We’ve been thinking more than one offender. So what’s the overall theory of how it went down, Doc?”

I said, “Best guess at this point is Okash and Rick Gurnsey had repeated sexual contact. She could be the woman seen with him at the fundraiser back in January. At some point, whatever they had went bad. We’ve heard two things about Gurnsey that could’ve led to that: He’s been known to cut off relationships without warning or explanation and he could get pushy about sex, including pressuring women to do anal. The women we spoke to dealt with it and moved on. Maybe Okash didn’t.”

“Agg assault with a blade,” said Reed. “Wrong woman to pressure.”

Reed said, “So she thinks up a way to get back at Gurnsey with Dugong’s help. Why the others? Why the limo?”

I said, “I’d been thinking about it as a theatrical production but Milo pointed out it could be performance art. Okash may even think of herself as an artist, so it’s possible she constructed a tableau.”

Up to that point, Binchy had remained uncharacteristically mute. Now he spoke in a low voice. “Human collage. Dugong was once into cut and paste.”

“Good point, Sean.”

“Once in a while I come up with one.” Still subdued. At odds with his usual cheer. Milo and Reed and Bogomil looked at him. He shrugged.

I said, “Whatever the exact motivation, Gurnsey was placed in a humiliating pose. Along with Mary Jane Huralnik, who we also know acted out sexually and who may have accosted Okash downtown. Solomon Roget I’m still seeing as collateral damage — murdered for his limo. Benny Alvarez is more of a question mark. He worked for Okash, he may have seen something he shouldn’t have. But as to why she’d want him in the picture? No idea.”

Milo walked to the board, pointed to McGann and Vollmann. “Seeing something is our working theory on these poor folk. They show up at the gallery on Saturday because McGann cares about Alvarez. Vollmann’s there because they’re heading to Mexico in a few hours. The two of them are shotgunned and dumped in Inglewood.”

Bogomil said, “If it’s true, these people are monsters.”

Binchy said, “Crazy art.” Looking down at the table, tight-jawed. “ ’Scuse me, need a pit stop.” He hurried out of the room.

Last year he’d encountered a murderous power freak and nearly died in the process. I’d saved his life. Since then, he’d feigned being okay and we’d never really talked about it.

Everyone knew. No one spoke because this was the job, not group therapy.

Milo said, “Have some muffins, kids. They’re fresh.”

Strenuous dessert. Followed by a long bath and a couple of hours watching Foyle’s War.

I’d intended to stay up after Robin fell asleep as I often do. Wanting to wring info from the computer on Dugong/Dowd and if that didn’t produce anything, search real estate sites for ownership of the house where Medina Okash had delivered the painting.

The next thing I saw was a blade of golden light riding the top of the bedroom curtains. Seven forty-eight a.m. Still in bed. No memory of the intervening hours.

Robin’s side of the mattress was empty. Slow, steady snuffling from my side led me to look down.

Blanche snoring joyfully, one paw resting in one of my slippers.

She waited, smiling, as I brushed my teeth and put on a robe, then padded after me into the kitchen. Coffee in the pot, two slices of rye toast on the table.

I said, “Where’s Mom?”

Trotting to the service-porch door, she sat.

I filled a cup and grabbed a piece of toast and the two of us went out to the garden. Pausing at the pond, I scooped a handful of pellets from the old porcelain Japanese urn I keep near the water’s edge and tossed them in. A few fell to the ground and Blanche was rewarded for her vigilance. The koi splashed her as they gobbled. She shook herself off and smiled some more. Not at me, at life, in general.

The right way to start the day.

The house was a two-story white Georgian Revival with a black door and matching shutters. Ungated succulent garden in front, double-width driveway, a silver Mercedes taking up half.

At the front door, Milo let a bronze, lion-shaped knocker fall on solid wood.

A maid in a black-and-white lace uniform opened. “Yes?”

Milo’s badge made her step back. “Is Crispin home?”

“One min.”

The door shut for two and a half minutes before opening on a pretty blond woman in her forties wearing pink velour sweats and black-and-white checked sneakers. The pale end of blond, a smidge past gray, thick mop of it, pushed back from an unlined forehead by a rhinestone band. A scrunchy circled one wrist, a fitness watch the other.

She said, “I’m about to head for the gym. Police? Why in the world?”

Milo said, “Are you Crispin’s mom?”

“I am.” Quick glance toward the house. Trembling lips.

“Sorry to bother you but we’ve had a complaint about Crispin.”

“I see.” Unsurprised. “What’d he do? Say something inappropriate to an overly sensitive teacher or student?”

“A little more than that.”

Pink velour shoulders rose. “Meaning?”

“Our report is he threatened some other students. Is he home?”

She slid a silver nail under the rim of her watchband. Flicked leather a couple of times. “It’s complicated. You can’t just approach him like everyone.”

“Could we talk to him in front of you?”

“Who’d he supposedly threaten?”

“Could we talk inside, ma’am?”

“Don’t you need a warrant?”

“We could come back with one, ma’am. But if it turns out to be nothing, why make a big deal and have it recorded as an incident on Crispin’s record?”

“Hmm.” Freeing the nail and inspecting her cuticle, she began stepping in place. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: You’ll talk to me first and if I approve of your approach — and if Crispin’s receptive — we can reach out to him. With sensitivity.”

“More than reasonable, Ms.—”

“Haley Moman.” Eyelash flutter. “I used to be Haley Hartford.”

As if we were expected to know that.

Both of us faked it and said, “Sure,” at the same time.

That made her smile.

She said, “C’mon in, guys.”

We were back at my house by five forty. Twenty minutes to go for Moe Reed’s watch on Okash. As the unmarked idled, Milo phoned him.

Reed said, “No movement, L.T., her lights are still off and her car’s still here.”

He recapped the talk with Crispin. “Let Alicia and Sean know.”

“Kid probably saw the murderers,” said Reed, “but no facial recognition — that psychiatrist — Oliver Sacks — Liz gave me one of his books, he had the same thing.”

“The way my luck’s going, he’ll be my next potential witness.”

“He passed away, L.T.”

“Proves my point.”

The drive was ten minutes on Sunset under a black sky, then a right turn east of Mount Saint Mary’s college. I was figuring the convent would be part of that campus but it wasn’t and I had to travel another 3.3 miles, well past the point where the views turned panoramic.

The address led me to a two-story, white stucco Spanish Colonial mansion, the kind you glimpse in the more venerable areas of Santa Barbara and Montecito, mostly hidden behind walls and gates. This property was open to the street. I wasn’t expecting to see much in the dark, but generous outdoor lighting said I’d been needlessly pessimistic.

The house was perched atop a high mound of lawn dotted with old palms and orange trees and a three-trunk sycamore whose branches stretched over an Italianate cement bench. A fountain of similar style burbled in the center of the property. To the right was flat asphalt parking hosting two blue vans and two blue Kias.

No signage, no crucifix, no steeple; nothing to suggest the place was a religious institution. That same anonymity extended to the clothing of the woman leaving the building and walking toward the lot, something green and shiny tucked under her right arm.

Long-sleeved blouse, knee-length skirt, uncovered dark bob. She was on the short side with a solid build and a jaunty walk. When she reached one of the compacts, she unfolded the green thing.

Several plastic shopping bags rolled up like a jelly pastry. She dropped one, bent and retrieved it, saw me get out of the Seville, smiled and waved.

I waved back and began climbing. The woman descended and we met halfway.

Thirty-five to forty, smooth complexion, strong nose, cleft chin, twinkly pale eyes.

“Dr. McCarthy? Glad you caught me. Thanks so much for the generous donation.” Softly contoured southern accent. Her hand extended.

I gave it a brief shake. “Sorry, I’m not Dr. McCarthy.”

She pulled away. “A donor I’ve never met said he might be dropping off a check. I figured a nice vintage Caddy — my apologies.”

“I’m Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist who—”

“So is he! Dr. Jerry McCarthy. Do you know him?”

“Actually, I do.” One of the most respected neuropsychologists in town. I said so.

“Feel free to join him in psychological generosity, Doctor. Are you coming to visit? It’s after hours and I was about to leave but if what we do inspires you, I’m happy to show you around.”

I showed her my LAPD consultant’s badge. Out of date and essentially useless, except for making a first impression.

“Police? Oh, dear. We haven’t made any complaints.”

“I’m looking for Sister Emeline Beaumont.”

All traces of good cheer withered. “Why would the police be interested in me?”

“They’re not, Sister. It’s about Medina Okash and Contessa Walls.”

“How did you connect them to me?”

“Your funeral message to Ms. Walls.”

“Poor Connie — well, that was a while ago.”

“Do you have a sec?”

“Is it going to take long? I was about to go shopping for our residents. We’ve only got three, currently. Teenage girls about to be moms. We offer them support throughout the process. Voluntarily. I emphasize that because with all that’s going on, the church has gotten a pretty bad reputation. A lot of it unfortunately justified. So how much time do you think you’ll need?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Then let’s have ourselves a nice sit outside under Gargantua — that big old monster. A botanist from the U. came and did dendrochronology. Gargantua was planted over three hundred years ago and has healthy roots.”

“Happy to make his acquaintance.”

Sister Emeline Beaumont laughed but the sound faded fast.

As she drove away, I called Milo.

Straight to voicemail at work and home.

I said, “Learned some interesting things about Okash,” and got out of there.

We left him in the room and called Sean up from the big D-room.

Milo told him his new assignment.

“Am I looking for something specific, Loot?”

“Nope, don’t ask questions and for sure don’t challenge the guy, he was a meth freak, still acts like one, and is tanked up on booze. Stay mellow and maybe he’ll drop some nugget of info. He does, don’t react, just remember.”

“Sounds kind of like being a therapist,” said Binchy. “You come up with the plan, Doc?”

Milo said, “Give me credit, kid. Conceived it all on my lonesome.”

Sean flushed. “Sorry, Loot.”

Milo clapped his back. “Relax. You’re the man for the job.”

“I am?”

“You bet, he thinks you’re a good guy.”

“Really,” said Binchy.

Far more cheered by Dugong’s evaluation than he should be.

Appreciating every brick in the crumbling walls of his identity. One day we’d talk.

He dozed as I drove, rasping through his nose. A mile from the station he was roused by a text beep, sat up sharp and speed-dialed.

Marcus Coolidge said, “Hey. A couple of us have been reviewing any closed-circuit footage we can find within a mile of my crime scene. Mostly phony cameras, malfunctions, lousy quality when we get anything. But an hour ago, Albert — my guy, a loaner from Auto-Theft — spotted something a little less than half a mile away. The same car drives toward the dump site at the right time and is spotted going the other way sixteen minutes later. It’s the only vehicle we’ve seen doing that. It’s an industrial area, that hour no traffic to speak of. Disk is too blurry to make out the tags but the make’s clear. Volvo sedan, you know how boxy they are. Leon’s a motorhead, says mid- to late nineties 850.”

I said, “White.”

Coolidge said, “Who’s that?”

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware. Is it white?”

A beat. “You already know this?”

“We didn’t until you called, Marc.” He told Coolidge about the cars at the Clearwater house.

Coolidge said, “That and a Rolls, one for show, one for the dirty work? So who are these people?”

“That, my friend, is unclear. All we’ve got so far is a business,” Milo summed up.

Coolidge said, “Macao. Where’s that, the Caribbean?”

“China. Low taxes and casinos.”

“So we could be dealing with Asian mafia types?”

“Who knows, Marc? The company seems to do art and real estate and Okash does business with them. She was seen coming and going with what looked like a painting.”

“Business and nasty,” said Coolidge, “if that Volvo is theirs.”

“We just stopped by, neither car was there and at least a couple days’ mail was in the box — all junk, no addressee names. Given what you found, you up for a meeting tomorrow morning, my shop? Bring Albert, you’ll meet my team.”

“Team? How many you got?”

“Three D’s, all on loan.”

“Same as here. My boss calls the Auto boss, cashes in a favor, and gets me Albert. Guy knows cars like I know my right hand. Not sure he can make it but I’ll be there. When were you thinking?”

“Ten work for you?”

“No prob.” Coolidge yawned. “ ’Scuse, looking at that video is like a slow drip of vodka, I need to crash.”

Next morning, same room. I was starting to feel at home.

Clean whiteboard, six chairs assembled in two rows like a classroom. Milo had amped up the catering: two boxes of pastries, another of assorted bagels, lox, cream cheese, paper napkins, a coffee urn, hot water, tea bags, Styrofoam cups. All on his dime.

Enthusiastic consumption all around. Even Reed, succumbing to a whole-wheat bagel.

He sat in the back row with Binchy and me. In front of us were Marc Coolidge, his Inglewood colleague, a six-foot-five Kobe Bryant look-alike named Albert Freeman, and Alicia Bogomil.

Up at the board, his jacket freckled by crumbs, Milo wielded a wooden pointer.

He’d been over the basics: no additional data on any of the four victims, no sightings of Medina Okash. Even with her car behind the gallery, the inactive look of the entire building suggested she’d slipped out and had been picked up by someone.

That combined with the mail pile-up at the blue house caused the room to go quiet.

Milo tapped Geoffrey Dugong’s face. “He’s gone, too, but to my mind, he’s a low-probability suspect. Unless he’s a consummate actor, and I don’t think he’s bright enough. Either way, we had nothing to hold him on so he’s back in Key West, courtesy a flight paid for by Homeland Security.”

Albert Freeman said, “How’d you pull that off?”

“Personal charm. Meanwhile, I’ve kept watch on the gallery and Alicia’s been surveilling Okash’s apartment. A warrant’s out of the question and I still can’t convince the D.A. a welfare check isn’t going to get us in evidentiary trouble. But one thing I did get from Dugong was Okash’s cell number and I’ve issued a subpoena for her records.”

Coolidge said, “So despite what the whack-a-walrus said, she’s high-probability.”

“She’s got a history of violence, the last place Benny Alvarez was seen alive is her gallery, she patronized the market where Solomon Roget posted his ads. And now we’ve got your Volvo lead and her connection to Clearwater. We’ve been figuring this for at least two people.”

“Her and some dude with a Rolls.”

“The reaction we saw to the murders was a one-eighty from what she showed Dugong.”

Milo turned to me.

I said, “Calm to the point of being flat and extremely flirtatious. So she may have been one of Rick Gurnsey’s flock of sexual partners, possibly the woman seen with Gurnsey at the house last January.”

Coolidge said, “So what’s the motive?”

Milo said, “Given Okash’s business, we might have some sort of sick performance art.”

More silence.

I said, “I just thought of something. The burner Gurnsey was talking to before he got killed has a Baltimore number and Okash went to high school in Annapolis.”

“It’s a burner, Doc,” said Binchy. “Random numbers.”

Alicia cleared her throat. “Not exactly. In the early days you could pay for an area code. And sometimes codes actually matched where they were sold. Least I saw that in Alburquerque.”

Milo said, “That so? Okay, maybe another brick in the wall.”

He pointed to a photo of the blue house on Clearwater. “Onward to this place. Still haven’t found any names associated with the property, just a company, AOC — Asian-Occidental Concepts.”

The pointer shifted to the right. Enlargements of a white Volvo and a long, sleek Rolls-Royce the same color. “These aren’t actual cars and in fact none are registered to AOC. But these exact models are registered to one of their subsidiaries, an outfit called Heigur, Limited. Making it even more interesting, another subsidiary, Western Import-Export, owns the building that houses Okash’s place as well as the two other galleries on the ground floor. Neither of which we’ve ever seen actually doing business.”

Coolidge said, “Some sort of front.”

“That’s what it smells like,” said Milo. Tap of the Volvo. “This one’s a ’96 850, just like you figured, Detective Freeman. Wanna I.D. the Rolls?”

Freeman walked to the board, put on glasses, returned to his seat. “Lower radiator, extended wheel base, got to be a Mark Three Silver Dawn. In terms of the year, about the same vintage as the Volvo: ’93 to ’96.”

“Impressive,” said Milo. “DMV says Heigur’s Rolls is a ’95.”

Reed said, “Rolls-Royce, a house in B.H., mega-money.”

Freeman said, “The house maybe, but not necessarily the car. Market’s soft as a baby’s butt, you could get one of these for twenty-five, thirty K.”

Binchy said, “You’re kidding.”

Alicia said, “Thinking of upgrading, Sean? Putting a surfboard on the roof?”

Binchy smiled. “Maybe, if there’s enough belts for the car seats.”

Coolidge said, “Both cars are from the nineties so maybe that’s when these Asian folk came to town. Meaning they could’ve bought the Rolls new and we are dealing with a big-bucks thing.”

Milo said, “So far, we’ve found no other vehicles registered to Heigur, so maybe. In terms of what that means for the case?” He shrugged.

Reed said, “What I was getting at is that with corporate types or Chinese gangsters, there could be lots of flying in and out. For all we know Vollmann and McGann got dumped near the airport because it was on the way to a fly-out.”

Al Freeman said, “Maybe they are jet-setters but here’s the thing: Cars can’t just sit there, they get garage rot, the engine freezes. So if both vehicles are operable, someone’s driving them on a semi-regular basis. And servicing them. There are plenty of places to handle the Volvo but the Roller’s more specialized. Besides a couple of dealers, there are like four guys in L.A. County you’d go to. It might narrow things down.”

Coolidge turned to regard his colleague. “You going on Jeopardy!? See why I brought him?”

Milo said, “Could you call the four, Al?”

“Sure, get me the VIN and I might be able to nail it, specifically.”

Milo grinned. “I didn’t know better, I’d think you owned one.”

Freeman shrugged.

Coolidge nudged him. “C’mon, give it up, man.”

Alicia whistled.

Freeman said, “Got a ’76 Shadow couple of years ago.”

Hoots all around followed by brief applause.

Freeman got up, bowed, sat down. “No big deal, picked it up for thirteen K.”

Coolidge said, “Bet you don’t tell the ladies that.”

Milo said, “Which of the four mechanics services your car? You could start there.”

“I do it myself.”

Coolidge stared at his friend. “That and college basketball? Where’s your cape, Ironman?”

Alicia looked at Freeman intently.

He said, “It’s not rocket science. Spent some time with a guy in Van Nuys, yeah I’ll start with him.”

“I’ll email the VIN,” said Milo. “Thanks.”

Alicia had loaded a photo of a ’76 Silver Shadow on her phone. “Nice. What color’s yours?”

Freeman said, “Shell gray, red interior.”

“Sounds gorgeous.”

“I take care of it.”

She smiled at him. He smiled back.

Milo said, “In terms of where to go from here, we just keep watching Okash’s places. Same rotation if that works for the three of you.”

Reed, Binchy, and Bogomil nodded.

I said, “Another canvass of Benedict Canyon might be a good idea. Neighbors who weren’t there the first time, people who remember something new.”

Milo said, “If we can fit it in, maybe.”

Alicia said, “What about that autistic kid? He claims he was actually out there when the killers left. Are you sure he told you everything?”

Milo said, “He’s a minor and his mother was pretty protective so I don’t see getting access.”

Alicia said, “We’ve got a psychologist.”

Everyone looked at me.

I said, “I’ll give it a try.”

I drove home thinking about how to approach Crispin Moman. Then I backed up and remembered the job I’d been trained for and looked at the big picture: Ethically, should I approach him?

This was a boy who’d been dealt an unusual hand. I couldn’t see any benefit he’d get from getting more involved. And if his name found its way into the murder book, he could conceivably find himself on a witness list.

If he was my kid, I’d say no.

As someone licensed to take care of people, I said no.

At the next red light, I texted Milo, told him I’d changed my mind and why.

My phoned pinged immediately.

I continued to drive west on Sunset, veered north on Benedict, came to Clearwater Lane, and hooked a right.

Still no cars at the blue house. More mail, spillover from the now full box, piled haphazardly in front of the door. I sifted through it.

Occupant. Resident. Homeowner.

Maybe Reed was right and whoever lived here was on the other side of the planet. With or without Medina Okash.

I returned to the Seville. Just as I turned the key, another text came through.

Robin met me at the door, still in her work overalls, hands drumming her hips, bouncing on her feet.

Not like her, and Blanche was also keyed up, snorting and rotating her head.

I said, “What’s going on, girls?”

Robin took my hand, led me to my office, pointed at my computer. “Sent it to you from my laptop because your screen’s wide.”

Faded color and curvaceous form filled the monitor.

A painting, blurred, busy.

From a distance, the interior of what looked to be a Renaissance drawing room. Voluptuous folds of satin and velvet and embroidered cloth, intricate brocade, tides of sable and ermine fur. All that excess punctuated by gem-like dots of metallic trim.

Luxuriant heaps of far-too-much in a confined space suggested imminent collapse.

I sat down, took a closer look, and amended my first impression: not a room; a horse-drawn coach crowded with people.

Up front a driver gripped the reins in a white-gloved hand as he craned back toward his passengers. Beyond him a star-flecked night sky, in front of him a hint of dappled equine haunches.

Black man. Literally. His skin rendered in inky tones limned blue and lilac.

Scarlet lips, milky teeth, the sclera of eyes tinted butterscotch as he leered at his passengers. No subtlety to racist intention.

He wore the type of Moorish garb that had filled the fantasies of Europeans travelers centuries ago as they indulged in “Orientalist” art: three gold hoops in one pendulous ear, grape-purple livery edged in silver, a creamy white turban.

The leer cartoonish.

I shifted to the objects of the driver’s attention.

The passenger sitting farthest from the viewer — next to the coach’s window — was a sallow, child-sized man of uncertain age with a tiny, scrunched, capuchin-monkey face. His slight frame was covered by a grass-green, high-buttoned tunic hemmed at the bottom by yellow triangles ending in bells.

Hooding his tiny head was more green cloth adorned by floppy donkey ears.

Bucktoothed smile.

Professional fool, on the job.

Closest to the eye, bathed in a ray of what had probably been bright-golden light centuries ago but was now ecru, sat a handsome, young, rosy-cheeked man, resplendent in blue silk and white lace. Glossy ringlets of dark hair trailed below his shoulders. Gold epaulets on his shoulders suggested military rank. So did a royal-blue cavalier’s hat balanced on his right knee.

The smirking expression of a spoiled adolescent. A waxed mustache and a wispy triangle of hair on his chin failed to add maturity. Nor did slumping posture, drunken eyes, and an agape mouth molded into a besotted grin. In the center of the mouth, a tongue tinted and shaped like a Japanese eggplant curled backward, a fleshy nautilus probing the innards beyond.

Sitting between the men, pressed close to the cavalier’s right flank, was a hook-nosed crone in a fraying, dust-colored dress, the garment baggy but unable to conceal a barrel of girth.

A black beret roosted lopsided atop strands of white hair so wild they appeared electrified. Drool beaded on her chin. The dress was cut low and square, exposing puckered cleavage that dipped to the withered roseate of the woman’s right nipple.

Like the three men, smiling. Crafty smile, as if a spell had been cast. Two brown teeth on top, a single incisor below.

The hag’s right hand, gnarled and liver-spotted, circled the young man’s penis. Small organ, but erect.

On the floor of the coach, two snub-nosed dogs, tongues drooping, observing the merriment. Resting on a bed of scarlet taffeta.

I turned away, heart racing. Robin’s hands alit on my shoulders and stayed there.

I put my hand on hers. “How did you find this?”

“The more I thought about what you described, your suspect running a gallery, the more I wondered if someone had tried to re-create an actual work of art. My first thought was Hieronymus Bosch or someone like him but I came up empty. So I keyed erotic art along with the basic victim descriptions. Black man young man old woman. I wasn’t sure how to characterize the mentally challenged guy but finally I said to heck with political correctness and put in fool. Because that’s how I saw a cruel murderer viewing him. To my amazement, this came up right away on a website called youdidntinventsexstupid.com. There’s all sorts of racy stuff on it. Apparently, Rembrandt went for outdoor sex, did a bunch of etchings, the most famous is The Monk in the Cornfield. Then there’s Picasso, Egon Schiele, Japanese woodcuts. But also this.”

“Who runs the site?”

“A woman named Suzanne Hirto. Art history professor at Swarthmore, she directed it to ‘the smug, entitled brats who invade my classroom.’ ”

I said, “Not a great career move.”

“You’ve got that right, she was fired. Not for erotica, for hurting the poor dears’ feelings. But she keeps the site up, message of defiance and all that. Anyway, here it is: The Museum of Desire, painted sometime around 1510, probably in Venice by one Antonio Domenico Carascelli. He was rumored to be a student of Titian but that can’t be proved. This is the only known work attributed to him and even that’s up for grabs. But putting aside taste issues, he was good, don’t you think? So maybe.”

I stared at the image. “How long did you work on this?”

“You know,” she said. “You get caught up.”

“Where’s the painting now?”

“No one knows. I emailed Hirto — she’s retired, sculpts and paints. She answered right away, said she got the image from a catalog put out by a Holocaust survivor group back in the seventies.”

“Nazi art?”

“Yes, but not what you’d think. This wasn’t stolen from Jewish collectors, it was part of Hermann Göring’s personal collection. Most of which was plunder. Great stuff — Velázquez, Renoir, Monet, all stolen. Like a good Nazi, he left handwritten lists that finally got cataloged a few years ago. But the bastard also bought and hoarded erotica that he didn’t record. This may have been an exception because of the Titian link, but no one knows for sure. The survivors tried to get compensation for reparations but they were poorly funded, relinquished control to a larger group who’s still struggling to get the stolen stuff back. So no interest in a dirty picture by an unknown artist.”

“Unbelievable,” I said. “That you found it.”

“It turned out not to be that complicated, hon.”

“That’s like saying all a drag racer needs to do is drive straight.” I got up, took her face in my hands, and kissed her hard. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Aw,” she said. “Now I need a bigger hat.”

I filled the time waiting for him trying to find other references to The Museum of Desire, Göring’s porn stash, Antonio Carascelli.

Nothing.

I checked out Suzanne Hirto’s site. Two headshots of her on the homepage: a photo that showed her blond, midfifties, with an open smiling face, and a self-portrait in oils that distorted her countenance to the shape of a dog bone and tinted it bilious green under a thatch of plaid hair.

The bell rang. I put the painting back on the screen and went to open the door.

Milo charged in. “What’s up?”

“A whole lot.”

Hugs, kisses, a proclamation of “Genius!”

Robin said, “Aw shucks, just doing my job.”

Milo: “As what?”

“Loyal girlfriend.”

“More like Supergirl. What you did is incredible.” He eyed her bench. “What’s that?”

“Renaissance lute,” she said. “Something that pretty boy in blue might’ve strummed.”

I was playing guitar when Milo phoned just after nine p.m.

“More Nazi stuff, like it wasn’t weird enough? I put in a call to the Holocaust center, maybe they can tell us something. Still watching Okash’s locales, still nada. Meanwhile, I need your help. Got a call from Haley Moman — Crispin’s mom. While she’s talking to me, the kid’s screaming at her in the background. Apparently he decided he needs to convene with us again, won’t say why. Mom told him no, he had a fit. She has no idea about what, just that he’s freaking out. I told her I could send a psychologist — that she already met you. She said why didn’t you tell me that in the first place, what, you assumed my son’s mentally ill? I said given Todd and Shirin’s complaint, it seemed the cautious way to go. That shut her up for a second then she says I don’t need your shrink, Crispin already has one. Meanwhile, the kid’s ranting in the background. I said maybe the two doctors could collaborate. That didn’t go over well with the lad, he’s screaming at the top of his lungs, wants ‘the Dumas guy.’ Even after Haley told him you were a shrink. Kid says, ‘Even better.’ ”

“Rigid and repetitious. That’s consistent.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Anyway, Haley called the kid’s therapist and she said nice things about you so everything’s set up. Sooner would be better than later, though I’m not convinced the kid really has anything to say. Probably just craves attention.”

I checked my calendar. Custody interview in the morning. Third-time meeting with a cranky, resistant father. I’d warmed him up a bit but more needed to be done.

“I’m free around one.”

“Great, I’ll tell her,” he said. “The kid’s at home all day, don’t imagine you’ll need an appointment.”

He sprang up again and gave the aquarium another poke, setting off piscine panic. Then he walked to his glass desk, shoved the collection of Rubik’s cubes to the floor, and began working one of his laptops.

Screenful of geometric designs. As he manipulated, he hummed atonally.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Crispin?”

“On your way out inform Haley I’m ready for breakfast. I want anchovies.”

Custody paperwork filled the rest of the day, followed by dinner with Robin that I cooked and catching up with psych journals. I went to sleep at eleven p.m., woke up at midnight, one a.m., two thirty.

As four a.m. approached, I remained wide awake, eyes open, muscles tight, synapses jangling. I tried to deep-breathe myself back to sleep. Doctor-soothe-thyself failed and at four forty-five a.m., I got out of bed, made my way to the closet, and got dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and running shoes.

Robin stirred. I kissed her forehead and went to the kitchen. Blanche stirred from her service-porch crate.

I opened the unlocked grate, received a somnolent lick.

After writing a note to Robin, I left.

Red-faced, red-eyed, back rounded, rolling his shoulders restlessly, my friend sat down in the living room, opened his attaché case, and yanked out his pad.

He dropped it in his lap, unopened. “Candace Kierstead’s place. Unreal.”

I said, “The guy looks like the picture of her husband.”

“She was playing me.”

“Probing the investigation.”

“And putting herself in the middle of it? That’s beyond high-risk, Alex.”

“Part of the thrill,” I said. “Like telling us that baby possum story. ‘I love animals.’ ”

“Jesus. Before I came here, I checked my notes. Don’t think I told her anything that matters.”

“You didn’t. And you can use her overconfidence — their overconfidence — against them.”

“Supportive therapy. I feel better already.”

He got a text, read, replied.

“Al Freeman, he found the Rolls’s owner. Sig Kierstead. I shot him a thanks with five exclamation points. Didn’t have the heart.”

He opened the pad. “Unlike the Clearwater house, there’s no corporate fog obscuring the Conrock deed. A little over two years ago it was bought by the marital trust of Stefan Sigmund Kierstead and Candace Walls Kierstead.”

I said, “Candace is related to Okash’s victim.”

“Gotta be. She’s the right age for an older sister. With a big grudge against Okash. Except why, then, would she become Okash’s landlady?”

“Playing with her the way a cat worries a mouse. And how better to keep tabs on her while she plans her revenge? How long have the Kiersteads owned the gallery building?”

He flipped pages. “Twenty months.”

“And Okash opened her place eight months ago. Someone able to sit with us the way Candace did has a suppressed nervous system. My bet is she enjoys the stalking as much as the kill. It’s possible meeting up with Okash was accidental but Candace saw it as confirmation. When Dugong ran into Okash at Art Basel she was chatting up potential clients. Maybe it was the Kiersteads. Maybe Okash doesn’t know who Candace is but Candace realizes what she’s been gifted with. She owns gallery space, Okash wants to have her own place, talk about karma.”

“Revenge eaten way cold,” he said. “Yeah, she’s an icy one, goddamn graham crackers, playing good citizen. But why wouldn’t Okash know who she was?”

“Sister Emeline said the Walls family had issues. It’s possible Connie never brought friends home. Candace, on the other hand, could’ve recognized Okash’s name from court documents or similar.”

“Connie gets cut, ends up sliding down hard, hangs herself in prison,” he said. “Yeah, that’s plenty to seethe about.”

“Let’s see if I can confirm the sisterly connection.”

I put my phone on speaker, punched buttons.

A melodious voice trilled, “Good morning, Saint Theresa’s!”

“Sister Emeline, this is Alex Delaware, the psychologist who came by a few days ago.”

“The police psychologist.” Wariness drained the music from her voice.

“I have a question about Contessa Walls’s family. Did she have siblings?”

“Connie, again? Yes, she had two older brothers and an older sister.”

“You met them.”

“No but she talked about them when her mood got low.”

“Not a happy family.”

“Distant, icy, rejecting. That’s why I never met them. They never visited the dorm, not even the parents, and Connie rarely went home during vacations. Sometimes she’d be alone, sometimes she’d tag along with us. She was physically beautiful but such a sad girl, Dr. Delaware.”

“Do you happen to know the siblings’ names?”

“I do know because when Connie griped, she’d use their names. Cormac orders me around like I’m a servant, Cormac used to hit me and pinch me, Charlie — no, Chuck laughs at me and makes me feel stupid. The big complaint about the sister was she shut Connie out, never included her... what was her name... something else beginning with ‘C,’ I guess the parents had a thing for ‘C’ names... Candy, I think. Yes, definitely. I remember thinking, That girl doesn’t sound very sweet.”

“Thanks for the information, Sister.”

“If your thanks are sincere, donate generously to our food drive. Every single can, jar, box, and bottle goes to those in serious need.”

“Will money do?”

She laughed. “Money always does.” The lilt, restored.

Two thirty p.m., that day: new whiteboard.

The stars of the display: enlarged DMV shots of Stefan Sigmund Kierstead, fifty-four, and Candace Walls Kierstead, forty-one.

Sleepy had confirmed the couple’s numerous trips to and from Hong Kong, Macao, Bern, Basel, Zurich, and Stockholm but still no information on where they’d lived before moving to L.A.

Further digging on the Walls family revealed that Candace’s parents, Charleston and Cinthia, were both deceased, as was brother Cormac. All three deaths had been registered at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. Hepatitis, liver cancer, liver failure.

Brother Charleston Jr. was alive and a resident of the Federal Correctional Institution in Cumberland, Maryland, six years into a twenty-two-year sentence for manslaughter and drug possession with intent to sell. A chat with an assistant warden revealed the specifics: running over a meth-dealing competitor with his car. Twice.

According to prison records, Walls was a no-problems inmate, hampered by diabetes, heart disease, and liver disease, loosely connected to the Aryan Brotherhood but not a member. A mugshot revealed a shaved-head, facially tattooed, sunken-eyed con with a goatish white chin beard bottoming a pale, collapsed face. Forty-eight but looking closer to seventy.

Marc Coolidge said, “Bunch of alkies, quality family.”

Al Freeman sitting next to Alicia Bogomil, their legs occasionally bumping, said, “Same old story.”

Alicia said, “Ain’t that the truth,” and smiled at him. Bump.

Milo said, “There’s no record of any domestic calls to the family and outwardly they look respectable. Dad was an IRS lawyer and they lived in a nice neighborhood.”

Moe Reed said, “Putting up a façade.” His voice emerging from Milo’s laptop.

He and Binchy were linked in to the meeting on FaceTime, Binchy now back on the Hart Street watch, Reed soloing Benedict Canyon and Conrock. So far, no movement at either location and neither the Volvo nor the Rolls had emerged from behind the black gate.

“The good news,” said Milo, “is I just got arrest warrants for both of them along with paper to enter both houses and the entire gallery building. We can also confiscate Okash’s car, which is still parked out back. I don’t wanna confront the Kiersteads or make a show of entering the gallery. Too many unknowns so we’re in a holding pattern, hoping to spot them on the road and take them.”

Coolidge said, “Avoid a hostage situation.”

“That and giving them time to destroy evidence. These are people responsible for at least six murders, likely seven. Once they’re in custody, we’ll separate them and take our time. Any questions?”

Al Freeman said, “They’re Nazis and her brother’s linked to the Brotherhood. Any connection?”

“Not so far and prison records say Candace never visited him. In fact, he’s gotten no visitors, period. The nun told Alex they weren’t exactly close-knit.”

“Bastards,” said Alicia. “Those poor dogs.”

Freeman said, “Hating’s an overall thing.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Bump.

I checked my watch and stood and headed for the door.

No surprise on Milo’s face. Freeman and Coolidge and Bogomil stared.

He said, “Dr. D.’s got a woman to talk to.”

Identifying Jane Leavitt had been easy: On the Daylighters’ website, her face was displayed prominently above the motto Vanquish Breast Cancer!

Executive chairperson of the group. For the past five years, also head of the steering committee for the group’s annual Newer Than New Year’s Fling.

No listing for Candace Walls Kierstead, despite her claim. I’d also failed to find verification of dancing ballet in San Francisco.

Reaching Jane Leavitt had proved a challenge. She hadn’t responded to Milo’s calls of a few days ago; his emails remained unanswered as did voicemails left on the group’s business number.

I gave it a shot, texting an oncologist I’d worked with at Western Pediatric Medical Center and asking her to call Warren Giacomo, M.D., professor of clinical medicine at the U. and the Daylighters’ medical advisor.

Giacomo phoned me at one forty-five p.m. He proved to be a genial sort who’d heard about the Benedict murders and termed them “unbelievable, way too close for comfort.” He had no idea who Candace Kierstead was but assured me, “Jane’s a sweetheart, let me see what I can do.”

I said, “So it’s a good group?”

“Sterling. Older demographic, mostly survivors and relatives. They’ve been extremely generous and once they give money they’re not pushy about how to spend it. So the police think something happened at their party?”

“They do.”

“Wow, I was there,” said Giacomo. “Now that you mention it, Jane did seem upset toward the end of the evening. I didn’t push it. Golden goose and all that. Let me try her personal email.”

“I really appreciate it.”

“No prob, I live on the 500 block of Roxbury. Not a hop-skip but close enough to give my wife and daughters serious creeps.”

As four thirty p.m. rolled around, I was itching to go but Jane Leavitt said, “I’ve so enjoyed chatting with you — please enjoy more high tea.”

I conceded another slice of cheese, two additional grapes, a water biscuit, and a slice of raisin bread. Thinking: Big Guy, you blew it.

Managing to withstand her urging to “try the butter, just a smidge, it’s from Denmark — okay, cholesterol, I get it. Then at least the jam, it’s a mixture of Alpine and conventional strawberries, a family in Milan — wait here one sec.”

She strutted out of the room and returned toting a leather-bound folio with both hands. Karen Amilyn Leavitt’s brief acting career was preserved between sheets of plastic. Semi-literate puff-piece reviews in a Beverly Hills throwaway paper, some dating back to high school days, had been preserved with additional photos from the Marilyn-clone shoot. Emphasis on come-hither headshots, lingerie glams, and airbrushed bikini poses.

Jane watched as I flipped pages. When I closed the book, I said, “Terrific.”

“She had so much potential.” She turned away, dabbed at her eyes.

I checked my phone and stood. “Oops, so sorry, I really need to go.”

“Police business? Something to do with her?”

“Yes.”

“Then be off,” she said. “Just as well. I’ve got a party to plan. The garden club, they love my palms.”

She directed my exit the same way she’d guided my entry: arm in arm, followed by a firm propulsion outdoors.

“When will you be able to clue me in, Doctor?”

“Soon as I can.”

“Grand,” she said, clapping her hands. “I want all the gory details, each and every one.”

Be careful what you hope for.

I drove south to Lomitas Avenue, hooked a right at Walden Drive, pulled over, and phoned Judge Martin Bevilacqua.

His clerk said, “I think he’s free,” and rang him in chambers.

A second later, Marty came on. “What’s up, Alex?”

“One more question about the Ansar divorce.”

“No new facts.”

“You mentioned art was part of the dispute.”

“Why does that matter to you?”

“It may connect to the murder.”

“One of them is involved? Oh, shit.”

“No direct involvement,” I said, “but our suspects claim to have sold to the Ansars. Any idea what?”

“Oh, man,” he said. “No, not a clue, Mister absconded with all of it according to Missus and she has no record other than it’s supposedly gazillions.”

“You have your doubts?”

“You know what it’s like. Everyone lies or at least exaggerates.”

“What kind of art does she claim he took?”

“Priceless Old Masters but she’s up the creek because there’s zero evidence. Are you telling me he hung out with really bad people?”

“He could’ve just been a customer.”

“Is there something weird about the art?”

Good nose. I said, “No details yet.”

“Alex, is this going to hit the papers?”

I said, “Not in the near future.”

“But maybe at some point.”

“It’s possible.”

“All right, thanks for letting me know. And if you do get any evidence that relates to the damn divorce, let me know and I’ll make sure you get paid for your time. By who, I don’t know, but by someone.”

At five fifteen p.m., Milo printed two copies of the arrest warrants, held on to one, and filed the other in the murder book.

He scanned the wording. “Lots of latitude, perfect. Time to contact the troops.”

We took Milo’s Impala. Just as he turned east on Santa Monica, Reed phoned in again.

“I was wondering if they’d go north on Benedict but they just passed the Beverly Hills Hotel. She’s driving, he’s kicking back and smoking what looks like a doobie — okay, they’re turning south onto Beverly Drive... now we’re at that insane intersection where all those streets come together...”

Honks in the background.

“That was close,” said Reed. “Texting idiot in a Maserati just ran the stop sign, nearly T-boned a tourist bus... everyone at the intersection trying to figure when to go, who designed this... okay, the prey’s turning left onto Canon Drive... staying on Canon going south... full stop at Elevado... have to make a full-fledged full stop, hopefully they haven’t made me, no reason they should... I’ll pull over and keep visual contact.”

Thirty seconds later. “Still south on Canon, got two cars between us again, the Rolls is easy to keep tabs on... another stop at Carmelita... they roll through... he’s a litterbug, flicked his butt out the window... she’s driving slowly, doesn’t look like they’re talking so they definitely haven’t made me... okay, now there’s a line of cars stopped at the red at Canon and Santa Monica, they’re not in the turn lane so they’re continuing south.”

I said, “Canon’s the new Restaurant Row in B.H., so maybe dinner.”

Milo said, “If we’re lucky. Be fun to ruin their appetite — Alicia and Sean, you still hearing this? Head over here. Code Two, no sound effects.”

“Roger, Loot,” said Binchy.

“Same here,” said Bogomil.

Reed said, “The light’s green but no one’s moving, more fools texting... all right, now we’re crossing Santa Monica... you’re right, Doc, tables on the sidewalk, people stuffing their faces everywhere. A whole bunch of pedestrian traffic... the Rolls just pulled over to a valet stand, looks like it handles... a bunch of restaurants. I’m pulling over in a loading zone thirty, forty feet up, watching through my rearview... they’re out of the Rolls... both are wearing white, not exactly virgins, huh? Sunglasses... she just handed the keys to a valet then... here we go, a place called... La Pasta. They just walked around to the side and went in... nothing yet, maybe they’re staying inside... nope, here they are, being shown to a sidewalk table right in front... maître d’ or whatever you call him is smiling at them... now he’s gone... they’re settling in... taking off their sunglasses... I’ll find legit parking — okay, there’s a city lot across the street, I’ll circle back on foot.”

Milo said, “We’ll be there in ten, Moses. Observe from where you won’t be seen. That goes for everyone.”

Milo parked the Impala in a one-hour zone on the 500 North block of Canon Drive, residential, just north of Santa Monica Boulevard. We continued on foot.

Restaurant Row was concentrated on the east side of the street. The west had some eateries but also boutiques and other retail businesses, all closed. Plenty of pedestrians window-shopping. Milo said, “Let’s join them.”

La Pasta was one of the largest establishments, outfitted with a double-wide outdoor area girded by waist-high iron. A gate in the center was slightly ajar. We looked for Moe Reed and spotted him across the street half a block away.

I said, “The gate’s a good thing. You can get them out without going through the interior.”

“I’ll interpret that as God loves me.”

We took our time, blending in with the foot traffic but keeping our eyes on the two people in white. As the crowd thinned and thickened, Reed flickered in and out of view. Leaning against the front of a store and pretending to study his phone.

He wore a gray sport coat in the slightly too-short Italian style, a black T-shirt, and jeans. Every seam working hard to contain his muscles.

Milo said, “He looks like a personal trainer. For other personal trainers.”

A couple of wiggly young brunettes in halter tops, black tights, and impossible heels clickety-clacked past us and toward Reed. When they saw him, they smiled, and one woman finger-waved near her hip.

Reed pretended not to notice. The women stared at each other as they walked on. When they were five yards up, Reed made eye contact with us and cocked his head toward La Pasta.

The Kiersteads had scored a choice curbside table just south of the gate. Glasses of white wine in both their hands, the bottle between them.

Stefan “Sig” Kierstead sipped and studied the menu. Sitting high; a tall, broad man with a long torso. His hair was pewter-colored, brushed back and worn full at the sides. Too far to make out his features but his skin tone was blatant: intense tan.

Candace Kierstead, brown hair streaming down her back, glints of gold at her earlobes and wrists, was positioned to her husband’s left. She fanned herself with the menu, put it down, fanned again, looked around at her fellow diners as if searching for something.

But not someone. Smallish table for two, there’d be no guests tonight. Another bit of luck. I said so. “God definitely loves you.”

“Compassionate deity that He is.”

We watched. Sig read; Candace drank. No interplay. She said something; he nodded.

Putting her glass down, she checked out her surroundings again.

I said, “She’s jumpy and she’s met both of us. Maybe the kids should do the frontal and you come up from behind.”

“No, if there’s gonna be a problem, the front’s where it’s gonna be and I need to be responsible.”

“At the least, you might want to approach from his side.”

“That I can work with.” His hands flexed and shut and opened. He dropped them to his side. Looked at the Timex and lengthened his stride. We were three storefronts from Reed when a break in the retail array appeared: open passageway leading to an outdoor area.

Milo said, “What’s good for the Mafia is okay by me,” and ducked in. I followed, and the two of us positioned ourselves just out of eyeshot from other pedestrians.

Behind us was a small patio filled with potted plants not in their prime. The surrounding shops — watch repair, jewelry, chocolatier, hairdresser — were dark.

Milo took a quick look at the Kiersteads. “We’re in the alcove, c’mon over, Moses. Sean and Alicia, what’re your ETAs?”

Sean Binchy, his voice strained, said, “I’m stuck. Some kind of emergency drain deal on Santa Monica just past San Vicente. Water’s flowing, manholes are off, hard hats with Slow and Stop signs are running the show. I’d go past ’em but every lane’s closed off and there are sawhorses all over the place. Sorry, Loot.”

“Don’t worry about it. Alicia?”

“It’s monster traffic all over this damn city,” said Bogomil. “I hit an incredible clog near the Beverly Center but fortunately nothing like what he’s going through. I’m making the turn at Palm Drive, should be there in five.”

“Good for you,” said Binchy, sounding anything but pleased.

Milo said, “Alicia, park as close as you can, even a red zone. Sean, text me when you’re five away.”

Reed entered the patio, swinging his arms. The movement caused the front of his jacket to flap against his massive chest. The bulge of his shoulder holster was visible for an instant; then he rolled his neck and stood up straight and it was gone.

“Anything to be aware of, kid?”

“They got seated right away and served wine without asking for it so I’m figuring regulars.”

“The good life,” said Milo. “As soon as Alicia gets here, we go. Candace knows me so I’ll approach from the north. Alicia will be with me and you’ll come from the back. Go to the bar, order a soda, look cool, and come out behind them. Try to get closer to her because she’s edgy. Sean makes it in time, he’ll be with you.”

“What about Doc?”

“Observing from a safe distance. On the way over, he worked up ideas about how to approach them. Everyone take a listen.”

I said, “With so many people around, the key is to avoid disruption and any sort of collateral damage. Cuff them as soon as possible and once they’re restrained, try to ease them up and out through that little gate in front. Obviously, they’ll be put in separate cars. Read them their rights and switch your phones to Record.”

Milo said, “Book ’em immediately but don’t get ’em into interview rooms as soon as possible. Alex?”

“Once they’re in the rooms, no pressure, go the soft route, try to give them the illusion of control. But the truth is, none of this may matter. These are sophisticated people. They’re bound to lawyer up.”

Milo said, “The key will be finding evidence at their houses and the gallery. They lawyer up, they’re locked up.”

His phone beeped and a second later so did Reed’s. A brief little electronic duet.

Alicia said, “Driving south on Canon. Can’t see you.”

Milo stuck his head out.

“Okay, now I can — got a nice little red zone right... here.”

Moments later she’d joined us, hair in a tight bun, wearing a black leather jacket, black crewneck, gray skinny jeans, black running shoes. As if she and Reed had color-coordinated. Or the assignment had inspired somber tones in both of them.

Milo said, “You hear everything?”

She said, “I did.”

Another beep. “What’s up, Sean?”

“Moving finally, Loot, but like a snail. I’m stuck behind ten cars at Doheny, every time the light changes it gridlocks.”

“Just stay with it, kid. We’re gonna move in a few.”

“You don’t need me?” said Binchy.

“I always need you. There’ll be plenty to do. This is just the beginning.”

Milo, Alicia, and I walked back to Little Santa Monica, taking the brief detour in order to remain out of view. Crossing Canon, we made our way back toward La Pasta. Reed had headed in the opposite direction, crossing at Brighton Way and continuing toward the restaurant’s entrance.

As we reached the edge of the iron railing, Milo unsnapped his holster but kept his gun in place. Stepping in front of Alicia, he led the way. I stayed back. But close enough to see.

I watched as Milo stepped up to Sig Kierstead, who paid no notice. Busy cutting a petite steak topped with some sort of green sauce.

Candace paid plenty of notice. She squinted, tensed. Said, “Lieutenant?” and put down the fork she’d been using to halfheartedly spool fettuccine.

Her husband looked up. Confused. Then amused. “Lyu-tenant? This is your police friend, Candy?” Smooth Middle European voice.

“It is. And you are?”

Alicia said, “Alicia.”

“Your girlfriend, Mr. Lyu-tenant?” said Sig. “You’re eating here? Excellent choice.”

Milo said, “Actually we came to see you.”

Candace gripped her fork. Fixed on us and not noticing Reed appearing behind her. He sidled between the neighboring table and the nape of her neck. That she noticed. She whipped her head back toward him.

Reed kept walking and she relaxed.

“Us? Why in the world?” said Sig, putting his knife and fork down and daintily dabbing at clean lips. Unperturbed. Cold gray eyes. Why not? The world was his plaything. At that moment I knew he’d been more than a sidekick.

He smiled. The tan was spray-on, yellow borders visible where it met pink flesh.

Candace said, “Something new has come up?”

Milo said, “Best to talk somewhere else.”

Sig said, “Out of the question. We’re recreating.”

“Still, sir. Please come with us.”

Gray eyes turned to pond pebbles. “I don’t think so, Mr. Lyu-tenant. Call and make an appointment.”

Candace said, “What is this about? Just tell us.”

Milo produced handcuffs.

Sig smiled. “Really? Fine, suit yourself.” Producing a small navy-blue tin from his pant pocket. Navy enamel, printed with white Chinese characters. “I’m a polite man, conversation calls for fresh breath.” Picking out a white, pillow-shaped lozenge, he rested it on his tongue, closed his mouth, swallowed. “Delicious.”

Candace gaped. “Coward!”

“That’s not nice, Candy.” Swooping up his steak knife, he plunged it into the center of her throat, thrust then slashed viciously to the left.

One volcanic spasm before her head dropped to her chest.

No longer all in white.

Sig smiled at his handiwork. Winked.

Someone shouted, “He stabbed her!”

People began screaming, shooting to their feet, tripping over themselves and their companions, upending chairs in the haste to escape.

Someone yelled, “Decapitation — ISIS!”

Milo lunged at Sig Kierstead and Reed did the same from the back.

Kierstead sat there, offered no resistance as they cuffed him.

Not a glance at his wife, spurting and leaking and dribbling blood over clothing, her food, the tablecloth, the sidewalk.

She deflated, sliding low. Hair dipping into blood, a head hanging from sinews collided on the table with a wet hollow sound. Her plate was knocked to the sidewalk.

Blood landed in her wineglass.

Swirling, as if before a tasting.

White to rosé to red.

Milo and Reed yanked Sig to his feet. He went limp.

Doing the Gandhi?

Then his eyes dilated. Rolled back, exposing the whites.

As the detectives struggled to hold on to him, froth started streaming from between now slack lips. His mouth dropped open. Filled with a bubble bath of foam. He convulsed. Spewed internal suds.

Projectile vomit followed by violent convulsions.

People continued to stumble and scream. Someone cried. The sounds of shock and torment continued until every table was empty.

Then a strange, unsettling quiet. The sidewalk clear because Alicia had been smart enough to keep it that way.

Sig Kierstead shuddered once, then again. His body sagged with a different type of flaccidity.

Gray began seeping from beneath the spray tan.

Whatever cheap imitation of a soul he’d possessed was gone.

Milo and Reed let the body drop to the ground. Milo stood guard, Reed did the same for what remained of Candace, and Alicia kept control of the sidewalk.

No challenge for her. The street had emptied as far as was visible. Instant ghost town. The last time I’d seen it like this was after the Northridge quake.

Then the quiet gave way to din as sirens began wailing. Loud louder deafening; an avant-garde composer gone berserk.

A figure ran toward us from the south.

Sean Binchy, pumping his arms, ginger hair blowing. Dressed like the ska-punk bassist he’d once been in an untucked floral shirt, blue cargo pants, and Doc Martins.

Alicia stepped aside to let him pass. He looked around panting, eyes hyperactive. “It’s over?”

I said, “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“C’mon.”

By the time the coroner’s vans arrived, darkness had fallen. The fire trucks remained in place but three of the police cruisers had been called away.

The remaining four cops had resorted to working their phones. Looking up briefly as the bodies were loaded.

Sean had hung on the periphery, looking miserable. Milo handed him the search warrant on Medina Okash’s apartment. “Take your time, do every single inch. Landlady’s a peach, she may give you attitude.”

“I can handle that, Loot.”

“Exactly.”

Milo’s next call was to the LAPD Safe Detail, requesting locksmiths for entry to the Clearwater and Conrock houses and the gallery building on Hart. The last would take time, Central Division smiths tied up at a pair of ultra-high-tech-secured toy district warehouses suspected to be the storage facility for a violent home-invasion gang.

He assigned Alicia the houses.

When she was gone, Reed gave an expectant look.

“You and me, downtown, Moses. It’s a big space. If I can get Coolidge and Freeman, I’ll use them, too.”

Next communication: his captain. Who referred him to a deputy chief. Who told him to contact the Public Affairs office. Which was closed.

He texted a message, got a call two minutes later.

Dr. Basia Lopatinski said, “Just got your message.” I didn’t know he’d left one.

He said, “No mystery on cause and manner but any guesses about the poison pill?”

“What did it look like?”

“Little white square thing, came in a blue tin with Chinese lettering.”

“What were his symptoms and how long did he take to die?”

“He got weak, started foaming at the mouth, vomited, seized, and that was it. Maybe half a minute start to finish.”

She said, “Except for the half minute I’d say potassium cyanide, which usually takes a couple of minutes. It’s similar to what the Nazis used. Also Tamil, for bombers in Sri Lanka and various other fanatics. I suppose it could be KCN kicked up by a chemical accelerator. An antidepressant would do.”

“Could we be talking literal Nazi stuff saved from back then?”

“With Chinese lettering? Doubtful. Their factories make all kinds of illegal products. Including most of our fentanyl.”

“Any legit uses?”

“Here, only industrial purposes. Photography, mining, fertilizer manufacture. And for those you’d use liquid, not pills. In the Wild East, who knows? Hold on... here we go. I’m going to send you a picture from an alleged assisted suicide website and you’ll say, hey, that’s the one.”

Seconds later, an image.

He saved. “Hey, that’s the one. Why alleged?”

“It’s obviously a commercial site aimed at exploiting depressed people. They also sell a clone of Nembutal to ensure that death is as quick and painless as possible.”

“You get this on the dark web?”

“No, it’s out in the open. Was the decedent chronically depressed?”

“No idea. Met him for the first time today.”

“I see... well, in China anything goes, they put garbage in baby formula. It could be a rat poison cocktail turbocharged by ephedra or meth or cloned Ritalin. Get him here and I’ll try to find out. How are you doing, otherwise? I heard about what happened — the decapitation.”

“Word spreads.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “No secrets, the world spins faster and faster.”

A Going Out of Business Sale banner striped the front window of New World Elegant Jewelers. The Flower Drum motel was doing some sort of business; four women in minimal clothing dispersed as we arrived. So did three vagrants nearby.

I thought of Mary Jane Huralnik being plucked off the street.

No sign of the locksmith. Milo parked in a red zone in front of the gallery building, scanned night-blackened windows, and pulled out a panatela that he actually smoked.

The smoke bothered Reed. He moved a few feet away, stretched and flexed, did a quick ten push-ups on the sidewalk, racewalked back and forth.

I used the time to phone Robin.

She said, “It’s in the news. Sounds horrible. My first thought was are you okay?”

“I was never in danger. Not even close.”

“I figured that out when they said one female victim. Her?”

“At the hands of her husband. Who poisoned himself and died on the scene.”

“So two victims, not one,” she said. “They can’t even get the basics right. You saw it?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh, baby, sorry. Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“Okay.” Doubtful but too loving to say it. “What’s next?”

“When a locksmith shows up, we check out the gallery building.”

“Big place?”

“Three stories.”

“So you’ll be late.”

“They can do without me, I’ll Uber home.”

“Your brain, your eyes? No, I’ll sacrifice for the common good. But soon as you can swing it — when your mind’s really free of this — let’s go somewhere, okay? Maybe a beach — no high culture.”

I laughed.

She said, “That’s a lovely sound.”

Equally cavernous space on the other side of the partition.

This lighting different, miserly, courtesy of a single track running down the center.

Warmer bulbs, though. Calculated focus.

The objects of illumination: two easels. Heavy-duty, solid oak professional artist models, both positioned along the room’s central spine, separated by twenty feet of open flooring.

The word “curation” has become a well-abused cliché. But it applied here.

An exhibit.

Perched on the nearer easel was a painting cased in glimmering gold leaf.

Hand-carved frame festooned with miniature gargoyle heads.

I knew the dimensions. But still, The Museum of Desire was surprisingly small.

Vivid colors unsuggested by Suzanne Hirto’s muddy file photo spoke to recent restoration.

Beautifully, horribly done.

The painting the product of a gifted hand but failing to rise above cartoon.

Because the intention had been nothing but shock value.

The four of us stared, stunned into silence. I was still staring as Milo and Reed and Coolidge moved on to the second easel.

Coolidge gasped. Reed’s hand shot to his mouth.

Milo stood there. I caught up.

An even smaller painting, maybe ten inches square.

Similar hues, similar style.

A tag affixed to the easel. Loopy handwriting in fountain pen.

Cherry-sized lumps began coursing up and down Milo’s jawline. The muscular tic that afflicts him when he fights internal combustion.

I braced myself and looked at the painting.

Black background, chiaroscuro lighting directing the eyes toward a triad of images.

Three gleaming silver salvers on a table draped in whiskey-colored velvet.

In the left-hand tray, a severed hand. On the right, a foot.

Filling the center tray was a woman’s head, dark ringlets streaming over a fluted edge. Eyes wide open but vacant. Mouth formed in a final oval. The skin, chalky gray accented in mauve and sea green and in strategic spots, red.

Marc Coolidge said, “Oh, God.” His eyes trailed to the far end of the room.

Something in a corner the track lighting neglected. Barely visible in the sooty gloom.

The four of us got closer. Details materialized.

Six-foot white rectangle.

A deep freeze.

Again, Milo held us back and walked toward it. Lifting the lid, he peered inside and stumbled back involuntarily.

Reed, unused to seeing his boss off balance, managed a single croaked word. “Her.”

Milo said, “Blue hair,” and began lowering the lid.

His hand slipped.

It slammed.

There’d be no trial in the matter of what the bloggers, the rumormongers, the conspiracy theorists, and the media, playing catch-up, had labeled The Stretch-Limo Massacre.

No quick resolution out of the public eye, the department doing its best to control leaks.

Impossible task. Gratifying the bloggers, the rumormongers...